CD 
GO 

C\J 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT    OF 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1848, 
B»     •    -^PLETON  <t  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tne  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southerm 
District  of  New  York. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  editor  of  this  volume  has  done  very  little  more  than  rearrange 
and  combine  the  materials  furnished  in  "  Gems  of  the  British  Sacred 
Poets,"  published  recently  by  a  member  of  the  University  of  Oxford, 
and  in  critical  and  very  interesting  "Lives  of  the  English  Sacred 
Poets,"  by  Robert  Aris  Willmott,  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  which 
appeared  under  the  direction  of  a  committee  of  the  Society  for  Pro- 
moting Christian  Knowledge.  He  has,  however,  added  some  thirty 
authors  not  quoted  in  either  of  those  works,  among  whom  are  Shirley, 
Baxter,  Toplady,  Wesley,  Williams,  Moultrie,  and  Mrs.  Steele ;  and 
of  our  own  country,  President  Dwight,  John  Quincy  Adams,  Bishop 
Doane,  Mr.  Hillhouse,  Wilcox,  Croswell,  Norton,  Whittier,  and  Coxe ; 
and  he  has  carefully  revised  the  selections  from  earlier  and  later  Eng- 
lish authors,  making  such  changes  as  he  thought  would  enhance  the 
value  of  the  work. 

The  religious  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  is 
eminently  worthy  of  study,  and  it  is  little  known.  "  Its  characteristic 
qualities,"  observes  Mr.  Willmott,  "  were  fervor  of  sentiment,  and  mel- 
ody of  language ;  the  fervor  often  degenerating  into  fantastic  enthusi- 
asm, the  melody  often  running  into  grotesque  extravagance  of  rhythm 
and  expression.  That  intellectual  eyesight  to  which  criticism  has  given 
the  name  of  Taste,  seldom  attains  to  its  perfect  vision  either  in  the  youth 
or  the  manhood  of  literature.  Homer  undergoes  the  polishing  refine- 
ment of  Virgil,  and  Pindar  catches  a  sweeter  note  from  his  Latin  imi- 
tator, and  the  orator  of  the  Bench  is  supplied  in  the  Forum,  before 
they  assume  the  form  of  grace  and  shine  with  the  subdued  lustre,  and 
speak  with  the  harmonious  accents  of  intellectual  beauty.  The  file, 
however,  when  it  ceases  to  polish  begins  to  weaken,  and  modern  poetry 
has  declined  in  strength,  while  it  has  increased  in  flexibility.  But 
the  calm  diffusion  of  light  is  more  agreeable  than  the  uncertain  blazes 
of  a  livelier  invention,  and  we  can  read  a  Grahame  with  satisfaction 
which  the  sublimer  genius  of  Quarles  will  not  always  afford,  and  recol- 
lect the  humble  rhymes  of  Watts,  when  the  more  passionate  songs  of 
Herbert  sound  harshly  upon  the  ear." 


235920 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Mr.  Willmott  and  the  author  of  the  "  Gems  from  the  Sacred  Poets," 
(who  is  said  to  be  Mr.  Isaac  Williams,  the  competitor  of  Mr.  Keble  for 
the  professorship  of  Poetry  at  Oxford,)  have  performed  an  acceptable 
service  to  the  readers  of  religious  literature,  by  drawing  from  undeserved 
obscurity  so  many  authors  who  had  been  forgotten,  or  were  remem- 
bered only  by  the  antiquary.  "  The  ridicule  of  Dryden,"  says  Mr. 
Willmott,  "  transmitted  the  name  of  Shirley  to  the  contempt  of  pos- 
terity, and  we  have  seen  Pope  and  Butler  embalming  Quarles  and 
Wither  for  perpetual  disgrace.  But  as  the  dramatist  has  risen  from 
the  scorn  of  Dryden,  so  Quarles  and  his  companions  have  shaken  off 
the  missiles  of  their  satirists." 

There  is  no  poetry  so  rare  as  the  poetry  of  devotion.  It  would  be 
as  difficult,  however,  for  a  true  poet  as  for  a  true  philosopher  not  to  be 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  piety,  and  we  find  that  sacred  songs  are  among 
the  finest  productions  of  nearly  all  the  great  poets,  whether  they  were 
technically  religious  or  not. 

The  romance  obtains  a  quicker  popularity  than  the  history,  the  melo- 
drama than  the  tragedy,  and  the  ballad  a  more  general  admiration  than 
the  ode.  In  this  collection  are  many  pieces  without  the  highest  attri- 
butes of  poetry  ;  but  very  few,  it  is  believed,  which  have  not  the  sim- 
plicity, harmony,  and  purity  that  will  secure  a  welcome  from  every 
variety  of  readers. 

The  importance  of  having  works  of  this  description,  to  elevate  the 
taste  and  deepen  the  religious  sentiments,  can  hardly  be  too  highly 
estimated.  Poetry  is  the  expression  of  beauty,  and  every  thing  truly 
good  is  beautiful.  Devout  reflections  upon  life,  death,  and  the  destiny 
of  the  soul,  may  by  the  poet  be  sung  to  men  who  would  never  hear 
them  from  another  teacher,  and  thus  a  simple  song  be  as  the  voice  of 
the  FATHER  to  an  erring  child,  calling  him  into  the  way  of  life. 


CONTENTS. 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE.  Page 

De  Profundis  ...............................  9 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

Hea/enly  Love  .............................  13 

From  the  Hymn  of  Heavenly  Beauty  .........  81 

The  Ministry  of  Angels  .....................  23 

Wisdom,  true  Riches  .......................  23 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

Moses  meeting  the  Daughters  of  Jethro  ......  24 

Virtue  not  Hereditary  .......................  29 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 

Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World  .......  30 

The  Happy  Life  ............................  32 

BARNABE  BARNES. 

Content  ....................................  33 

Prayer  .....................................  33 

SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 

False  and  True  Knowledge  .................  34 

The  Soul  ..........................  ........  40 

The  Immortality  of  the  Soul  shown  from  the 

Unsatisfying  Nature  of  Earthly  Enjoyments  43 

The  Worth  of  the  Soul  .........  .  ............  44 

FRANCIS  DAVISON. 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  ixiii  ...................  45 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  Ixxxvi  .................  46 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  xiii  ....................  48 

JOSEPH  BRYAN. 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  Ixv  ....................  49 

JOHN  DONNE. 

Sacred  Sonnets  .............................  50 

Ode  ........................................  52 

Hymn  to  Christ  .............................  5J 

Hymn  to  God,  ray  God  ......................  53 


Haft 

An  Apostrophe  to  the  fallen  Empire*  of  x» 

World 74 

The  Triumph  of  the  Church 76 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 

An  Hymriof  True  Happiness 79 

No  Trust  in  Time 83 

Retirement 83 

The  Nightingale 84 

Apples  of  Sodom 84 

Madrigal 85 

The  Crucifixion 85 

The  Ascension 87 

GILES  FLETCHER. 

The  Interposition  of  Justice 90 

The  Shame  of  not  loving  God 91 

"  To  whom  else  can  we  fly" 92 

Mercy 93 

The  Speech  of  Mercy 93 

Christ  and  the  Temp'.er  upon  Astnea 98 

Christ  ami  the  Tempter  upon  the  Mountain. .    99 

Ambition  and  Vain-glory 100 

The  Remorse  of  Judas 101 

Redemption 102 

The  Joys  of  the  Redeemed 104 

HENRY  KING. 

The  Anniversary 107 

The  Dirge 108 

Sic  vita 109 

JAMES  SHIRLEY. 
Death's  Conquest 110 

GEORGE  WITHER. 

Extract  from  a  Prisoner's  Lay Ill 

The  Marigold 112 


BEN  JONSON. 
Eupheme's  Mind  ...........................    55 

The  Good  Life,  Long  Life  ...................    57 

THOMAS  CAREW. 

Pleasure  ...................................     57 

GEORGE  SANDYS. 
DeoOpt.  Max  ..................  <;g 


113 


Hymn 62 

Psalm  xlvi 62 

Psalm  xlii... 63 

Psalm  cxxxvii 65 

Psalm  xc 66 

Hannah's  Thanksgiving 67 

The   Lamentation  of  David  over  Saul  and 

Jonathan 59 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT. 
A  Dialogue  between  the  World,  a  Pilgrim, 
and  Virtue 70 

PH1NEAS  FLETCHER. 

Invocation 73 

1* 


The  Virtuous  Man lit 

A  Prayer  for  Seasonable  Weather 115 

Divers  Providences 116 

The  Glory  of  Christ  under  the  Figure  of  Solo- 
mon  117 

From  a  Poem  on  the  Anniversary  of  his  Mar. 

riageDay us 

From  a  Hymn  fora  Widower 118 

Prayer  for  his  Wife  and  Children,  written  in 
Newgate 119 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 120 

To  Blossoms ui 

To  Daffodils jjg 

FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

Prayer  for  Divine  Inspiration 183 

The  World 124 

Glorying  in  the  Crow 125 

'  "False  world,  thou  liest" 123 

Delight  in  God  only 127 

Fleeing  from  Wrath 129 

The  New  Heart 130 

The  Shortness  of  Life 132 


CONTENTS. 


The  Pi)»rim  .  . 

Page 
.  133 

The  Wreath 

**g. 

The  Long-suffering  of  God  
The  Last  Trumpet  

...  134 
...  134 
...  135 

Sundays  

208 

The  Retreat 

203 

The  Brevity  of  Life  

Childhood 

204 

...  136 

The  World  

204 

...  138 

206 

Nothin^  Perfect  on  Earth 

.      139 

GEORGE  HERBERT. 

Jerusalem  in  Ruins  

...  139 

Mercy  tempering  Justice  
Hope  in  God  
Decay  of  Life  

..  )40 
140 
.     140 

Virtue  
The  Quip  

810 
810 

The  Martyr  Ridley  
THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

142 
143 

Business  
Peace  
Grace 

211 
219 

THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 
An  Ecloo-ue 

314 

RICHARD  CRASHAW. 
A  Hymn  

..  146 

RICHARD  BAXTER. 
Wisdom  

218 

Chorus  of  the  Shepherds  of  Bethlehem  

..  148 
..   149 
..  150 

in 

..  154 

..  156 

On  a  Prayer-book  sent  to  Mrs.  R.  
PATRICK  CAREY. 
Christ  in  the  Cradle,  in  the  Garden,  and 
his  Passion  

WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 
Laudate  Dominum  de  Coelis  

A  Psalm  of  Praise  

The  Valediction 

222 
286 

JOHN  QUARLES. 

231 

SIR  RICHARD  BLACKMORE. 
The  114th  Psalm  paraphrased  

233 

The  Sinner's  Fate  

235 

Non  Nobis  Domine 

..  157 
..  159 

THOMAS  FLATMAN. 
Hymn  for  the  Morning  

236 

Via  Tuas  Domine  Demonstra  Mihi 

For  the  Evenino-  

936 

A  Thought  of  Death 

237 

EDMUND  WALLER. 

REV.  JOHN  NORRIS. 
The  Infidel 

2^9 

..  166 
167 

239 

ISAAC  WATTS. 
The  Day  of  Judgment 

241 

JOHN  MILTON. 

Hope  in  Darkness  

.   ...      242 

171 

Divine  Judgments  

244 

_y    .     ,.               .    j,.    . 

The  Hebrew  Bard  

24G 

A  Survey  of  Man  

348 

JEREMY  TAYLOR. 
The  Wise  Men  coming  to  Worship  Jesus. 

..  179 

949 

THOMAS  PARNELL. 
A  Night-piece  on  Death  

256 

252 

A  Hymn  to  Contentment  

SIR  EDWARD  SHERBURNE. 

181 

EDWARD  YOUNG. 
The  Poet  compares  himself  to  a  Trav 

-Her...  255 
256 

HENRY  MORE. 
The  Philosopher's  Devotion  

..  182 

The  World  

257 

False  and  True  Religion  

ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 
From  "  The  Garden"  .  .. 

..  18-1 
..  185 

Man's  Immortality  proved  by  Refer 
Nature 

258 

ence  to 

Misery  of  Unbelief.  

260 

ANDREW  MARVELL. 

..  189 

Reasons  for  Belief  

262 

Contemplation  of  the  Heavens  

264 
9G6 

HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

The  Pursuit 

Pleasure  
Gambling 

368 

269 

869 

The  World  

19S 

ROBERT  BLAIR. 
A  Schoolboy,  at  Night,  in  a  Churchya 
A  rich  Man  surprised  by  Death  

JAMES  THOMSON. 

rd  270 
27» 

...  8T3 

The  Bee  

10,5 

The  Shepherds 

The  Garland  

199 

The  Dwelling-place 

..  200 
..  200 

Heaven  in  Prospect  

CONTENTS. 


CHARLES  WESLEY. 
Judgment 


Page 
..  276 


JAMES  MERRICK. 

/  The  Ignorance  of  Man 877 

Nunc  Dimittis 278 

/  The  Providence  of  God 279 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 

Invocation 288 

The  Final  Judgment 283 

The  Ant  and  the  Bee 284 

Goodness  of  God 285 

God  in  Man 288 

David 289 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

The  Repentant  Sinner 29C 

The  Millennium 292 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God 296 

The  Happy  Man 297 

Hope 300 

On  a  Bill  of  Mortality 301 

Religion  not  adverse  to  Pleasure SOS 

The  Enchantment  Dissolved 303 

Retirement 304 

JOHN  LOGAN. 

The  Complaint  of  Nature 305 

The  Prayer  of  Jacob 308 

NATHANIEL  COTTON. 
Life 309 

JAMES  GRAHAME. 

The  First  Sabbath 314 

The  Sabbaih  as  a  Day  of  Rest 316 

A  Spring  Sabbath  Walk 317 

A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk 318 

An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk 320 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk >21 

JAMES  BEATTIE. 
The  Hermit 32J 

From  an  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Lady 324 

ANNE  STEELE. 

A  Morning  Hymn 316 

/    Resignation 327 

AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE  TOPLADY. 
Hymn 388 

JOHN  SCOTT. 

TheSongofZion 329 

The  Tempestuous  Evening 330 

HANNAH  MORE. 

Reflections  of  Hezekiah  in  his  Sickness 331 

Faith  in  Humble  Life 336 

Morning  Hymn 336 

ANNA  LETIT1A  BARBAULD. 

An  Address  to  the  Deity 338 

Hymns 340 

Love  to  God 341 

For  Easter  Sunday 343 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 
The  Country  Pastor 345 

Prediction  to  Joshua  relative  to  America 349 

OHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 
\    To  a  Bereaved  Mother 351 


Page 

The  Hour-glass 353 

/  Lord  of  all  Worlds 353 

Why  should  I  fear  in  Evil  Days 355 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
Intimations  of  Immortality,   from  Recollec- 
tions of  Early  Childhood 356 

Ode  to  Duty «2 

The  Laborer's  Noonday  Hymn 363 

Thought  on  the  Seasons 364 

Apostrophe  to  the  Deity 365 

To  the  Supreme  Being 366 

Jehovah  the  Provider 367 

Latimerand  Ridley 357 

Exiled  Reformers 367 

New  Churches 368 

TheKirkofUlpha 363 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us 36<» 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

/  The  Grave 370 

/  The  Stranger  and  his  Friend 374 

/On  the  Loss  of  Friends 375 

Christ  the  Purifier 376 

Life,  Death,  and  Judgment 377 

/  WhatisPrayer 377 

The  Day  after  Judgment 378 

Hallelujah 380 

JAMES  HOGG. 

The  Covenanter's  Scaffold  Song 38 1 

A  Hebrew  Melody 382 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

From  "  Religious  Musings" 384 

A  Christmas  Carol 388 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

/  Love 390 

Affliction 391 

/  Remembrance 391 


WILLIAM  HERBERT. 
Hymn  to  Death 393 

C.  C.  COLTON. 
Lite 396 

REGINALD  HEBER. 
The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea 398 

/  Thou  art  gone  to  the  Grave 401 

Hymn  on  the  Creation 401 

Hymn  to  the  Seasons 402 

The  Followers  of  Christ 402 

The  Raising  of  the  Widow's  Son 403 

Epiphany 404 

Missions 405 

BERNARD  BARTON. 

Hiiman  Life 406 

Spiritual  Worship 407 

The  Pool  of  Bethesda 408 

Time's  Takings  and  Leavings 410 

Power  and  Benevolence 411 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

The  Christian's  Progress 418 

Hymn 413 

Sonnet 414 

Faith 414 

Lines  written  on  •  Survey  of  the  Heavens....  415 


CONTENTS. 


JOHN  P1ERPONT. 
'My  Child 

Her  Chosen  Spot . . 

Jerusalem  . . . 


Page 
..  417 


Page 

..  482 


GEORGE  CROLY. 

The  Stars 424 

Jacob's  Dream 425 

A  Dirge 426 


ANDREWS  NORTON. 

Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  JEliot 428 

Hymn 430 

''Fortitude 431 

/  Funeral  Hymn 432 

RICHARD  H.  DANA. 

Island  oftheBucaniers 433 

The  Ocean 434 

Daybreak 435 

Intimations  of  Immortality 437 

The  Little  Beach-bird 438 

WILLIAM  KNOX. 

Mortality 439 

Youth  and  Age 441 

The  Atheist 442 

To-morrow 443 

JAMES  A.  H1LLHOUSE. 

Close  of  the  Vision  of  Judgment  444 

Hadad's  Description  of  the  City  of  Jerusalem.  446 
Evening  Music  of  tht  Angels 447 

HENRY  HART  M1LMAN. 

A  Funeral  Anthem 448 

Hymn  to  the  Saviour 449 

The  Crucifixion 451 

The  Judgment 452 

The  Merry  Heart 453 

BISHOP  MA  NT. 
Christian  Consolation  on  the  Death  of  Friends  454 

True  Knowledge 457 

The  Lord's  Day 457 

The  House  of  God 457 

The  Village  Church 458 

The  Church  Bells 458 

Social  Worship 459 

Prayer 459 

FELICIA  J1.3MANS. 

The  Aged  Patriarch 461 

Christ  stilling  the  Tempest 462 

A  Domestic  Scene 463 

I    The  Better  Land 464 

The  Hour  of  Death 465 

Hymn  of  the  Mountain  Christian 466 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 
Barzillai  the  Gileadite 468 

I  Death  of  an  Infant 470 

The  Church  Bell 470 

The  Tree  of  Love 471 

Death  of  a  Friend 472 

/   "Lord,  remember  us" 473 

CARLOS  WILCOX. 

The  Sabbath 475 

God's  Omnipresent  Agency 476 

Rousseau  and  Cowp«>r 477 

The  Cure  of  Melancholy 479 

Live  for  Eternity  ...  ...  481 


JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN. 

The  Restoration  of  Israel 

The  Pneuma 483 

Part  of  the  Nineteenth  Psalm 484 

W.  B.  O.  PEA  BODY. 

Hymn  of  Nature 486 

Death 488 

Autumn  Evening  ...  ...489 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 
The  Three  Tabernacles. . 
GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 
•'The  Voice  of  Rama 


The  Waters  of  Marah 

»  What  is  that,  Mother" 
"  A  Cherub 

Lines  by  the  Lake-side 
'  The  Christian's  Death 
JOHN  KEBLE. 

Morning  ..............  ; 

Autumn 

The  Flowers  of  the  Field 

Address  to  Poets 

The  United  States 


497 
499 
500 
508 
503 

505 
509 
511 

512 
514 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 
Byron 
Praise  ............. 

Pride 

JOHN  MOULTRIE. 

'  The  Three  Sons 
To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Chalmers 

GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE. 
f     To  my  Mother  ..............................  515 

Night  Study  ...............................  517 

Lines  written  on  s?ein«r  Thorwaldsen's  bas- 
relief  representing  Night  ..................  518 

WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 

The  Synagogue  ............................  520 

The  Clouds  ................................  521 

The  Ordinal  ................................  522 

Christmas  Eve  ..............................  524 

The  Death  of  Stephen  ......................  525 

The  Christmas  Offering  .....................  5*5 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

Palestine  ...................................  526 

The  Female  Martyr  .........................  528 

SIR  ROBERT  GRANT. 
Lines 
Trust  in  the  Saviour  ........ 


.531 
532 
.132 


Prayer 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

^    "  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn" £14 

"No  Man  knoweth  his  Sepulchre" 53$ 

The  Future  Life 535 

ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Hymn  to  the  Redeemer 537 

American  Missions    539 

Right  glad  was  1 540 

Berkeley 541 

Old  Churches 542 

The  Heart 'sSonsr 543 

The  Chimes  of  England 544 

ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 

Translation  of  the  Ancient  Hymn,  "  Dies  Irae, 
Dies  Ilia" 546 


THE 


SACRED  POETS 

OF 

ENGLAND    AND    AMERICA 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 

THIS  poet,  who  was  born  in  1540,  is  very  justly  placed  among  the 
worthies  of  early  English  poetical  literature.  He  was  bred  to  the  law, 
but  quitted  it,  and  served  with  distinction  against  the  Spaniards.  His 
principal  work  is  "  The  Fruits  of  War,"  which  relates  to  the  adven- 
tures of  his  voyage.  In  his  youth  he  was  a  profligate,  but  he  lived 
to  amend  his  ways,  and  became  a  wise  and  good  man.  He  died  in 
a  religious,  calm,  and  happy  frame  of  mind,  in  1577.  The  writings 
of  Gascoigne  are  more  the  result  of  observation  than  of  creative 
genius.  For  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  the  verse  is  uncommonly 
smooth,  flowing,  and  unaffected. 

DE     PROFUNDIS. 

FROM  depth  of  dole,  wherein  my  soul  doth  dwell, 
From  heavy  heart,  which  harbors  in  my  breast, 
From  troubled  sprite,  which  seldom  taketh  rest, 

From  hope  of  heaven,  from  dread  of  darksome  hell, 

O  gracious  God,  to  thee  I  cry  and  yell : 

My  God,  my  Lord,  my  lovely  Lord,  alone 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  make  my  moan. 

And  thou,  good  God,  vouchsafe  in  grace  to  take 
This  woful  plaint 
Wherein  I  faint ; 

Oh !  hear  me,  then,  for  thy  great  mercy's  sake. 


10  GEORGE    GASCOIGNE. 


Oh !  bend  thine  ears  attentively  to  hear, 

Oh !  turn  thine  eyes,  behold  me  how  I  wail ! 
Oh  !  hearken,  Lord,  give  ear  for  mine  avail, 

Oh  !  mark  in  mind  the  burdens  that  I  bear  ; 

See  how  I  sink  in  sorrows  everywhere. 

Behold  and  see  what  dolors  I  endure, 

Give  ear  and  mark  what  plaints  I  put  in  ure  ;! 

Bend  willing  ears  ;  and  pity  therewithal 
My  willing  voice, 
Which  hath  no  choice 

But  evermore  upon  thy  name  to  call. 

If  thou,  good  Lord,  shouldst  take  thy  rod  in  hand, 
If  thou  regard  what  sins  are  daily  done, 
If  thou  take  hold  where  we  our  works  begun, 

If  thou  decree  in  judgment  for  to  stand, 

And  be  extreme  to  see  our  'scuses2  scanned  ; 
If  thou  take  note  of  every  thing  amiss, 
And  write  in  rolls  how  frail  our  nature  is, 

O  glorious  God,  0  King,  0  Prince  of  power  ! 
What  mortal  wight 
May  thus  have  light 

To  feel  thy  power,  if  thou  have  list  to  lower  ? 

But  thou  art  good,  and  hast  of  mercy  store, 
Thou  not  delight'st  to  see  a  sinner  fall, 
Thou  hearkenest  first,  before  we  come  to  call, 

Thine  ears  are  set  wide  open  evermore, 

Before  we  knock  thou  comest  to  the  door ;  \ 

Thou  art  more  prest  to  hear  a  sinner  cry 
Than  he  is  quick  to  climb  to  thee  on  high. 

Thy  mighty  name  be  praised  then  alway, 
Let  faith  and  fear 
True  witness  bear, 

How  fast  they  stand  which  on  thy  mercy  stay. 

1  Use.  *  Excuses. 


GEORGE    GASCOIGNE.  11 

I  look  for  thee,  my  lovely  Lord,  therefore 
For  thee  I  wait,  for  thee  I  tarry  still, 
Mine  eyes  do  long  to  gaze  on  thee  my  fill. 

For  thee  I  watch,  for  thee  I  pry  and  pore, 

My  soul  for  thee  attendeth  evermore. 

My  soul  doth  thirst  to  take  of  thee  a  taste, 
My  soul  desires  with  thee  for  to  be  placed. 

And  to  thy  words,  which  can  no  man  deceive, 
Mine  only  trust, 
My  love  and  lust, 

In  confidence  continually  shall  cleave. 


Before  the  break  or  dawning  of  the  day, 
Before  the  light  be  seen  in  lofty  skies, 
Before  the  sun  appear  in  pleasant  wise, 

Before  the  watch,  (before  the  watch,  I  say,) 

Before  the  ward  that  waits  therefore  alway, 

My  soul,  my  sense,  my  secret  thought,  my  sprite. 
My  will,  my  wish,  my  joy,  and  my  delight, 

Unto  the  Lorfl,  that  sits  in  heaven  on  high, 
With  hasty  wing 
From  me  doth  fling, 

And  striveth  still  unto  the  Lord  to  fly. 


0  Israel !  0  household  of  the  Lord  ! 

O  Abraham's  sons !  0  brood  of  blessed  seed ! 

0  chosen  sheep,  that  love  the  Lord  indeed  ! 
0  hungry  hearts !  feed  still  upon  his  word, 
And  put  your  trust  in  Him  with  one  accord. 

For  He  hath  mercy  evermore  at  hand, 

His  fountains  flow,  his  springs  do  never  stand ; 
And  plenteously  He  loveth  to  redeem 
Such  sinners  all 
As  on  Him  call, 
And  faithfully  his  mercies  most  esteem. 


12  EDMUND    SPENSER. 


He  'will  redeem  our  deadly,  drooping  state, 

He  will  bring  home  the  sheep  that  go  astray, 
He  will  help  them  that  hope  in  Him  alway, 

He  will  appease  our  discord  and  debate, 

He  will  soon  save,  though  we  repent  us  late. 
He  will  be  ours,  if  we  continue  his, 
He  will  bring  bale1  to  joy  and  perfect  bliss ; 

He  will  redeem  the  flock  of  his  elect 
From  all  that  is 
Or  was  amiss 

Since  Abraham's  heirs  did  first  his  laws  reject. 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 

EDMUND  SPENSER  was  born  in  London  about  1553.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge.  He  has  been  styled,  by  way  of 
pre-eminence,  the  DIVINE  POET  OF  ENGLAND.  This  may,  perhaps,  be 
somewhat  incorrect ;  his  writings  have,  however,  a  pure,  elevating, 
and  beautiful  spirit  of  humanity ;  and  his  "  Divine  Hymns,"  it  has  been 
well  remarked,  are  indeed  divine.  Spenser  was  made  Secretary  of 
Ireland,  and  he  obtained  a  grant  of  lands  forfeited  in  the  county  of 
Cork.  On  the  breaking  out  of  Tyrone's  rebellion,  he  was  obliged  to 
abandon  his  home  so  abruptly,  that  one  of  his  children  perished  in  the 
flames  which  consumed  his  dwelling.  He  died  shortly  after,  it  is  said 
of  a  broken  heart,  in  1599 ;  and  was  buried,  by  his  own  desire,  near 
the  tomb  of  Chaucer,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Spenser  himself  de- 
scribes his  great  poem,  "  The  Fairy  Queen,"  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  as  a  continual  allegory,  or  dark  conceit ;  the  aim  of  "  all  the 
book"  baing  "  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  virtuous  and 
gentle  discipline."  An  edition  of  all  the  works  of  Spenser  has  re- 
cently been  published  in  Boston,  edited  with  great  taste  and  judgment 
by  Mr.  George  Hillard  of  that  city.  There  is  a  discriminating  article 
upon  Spenser  in  the  thirty-second  volume  of  The  Quarterly  Review, 
by  the  author  of  "  The  Christian  Year." 

1  Misery. 


EDMUND    SPENSER.  13 


HEAVENLY    LOVE. 

LOVE  !  lift  me  up  upon  thy  golden  wings 

From  this  base  world  unto  thy  heaven's  height, 

Where  I  may  see  those  admirable  things 

Which  there  thou  workest  by  thy  sovereign  might, 
Far  above  feeble  reach  of  earthly  sight, 

That  I  thereof  an  heavenly  hymn  may  sing 

Unto  the  God  of  Love,  high  heaven's  King. 

Before  this  world's  great  frame,  in  which  all  things 
Are  now  contained,  found  any  being  place, 

Ere  flitting  Time  could  wag  his  eyas1  wings 

About  that  mighty  bound  which  doth  embrace 
The  rolling  spheres,  and  parts  their  hours  by  space, 

That  high  Eternal  power,  which  now  doth  move 

In  all  these  things,  moved  in  itself  by  love. 

It  loved  itself  because  itself  was  fair, 

(For  fair  is  loved,)  and  of  itself  begot, 

Like  to  itself,  his  eldest  son  and  heir, 

Eternal,  pure,  and  void  of  sinful  blot, 
The  firstling  of  his  joy,  in  whom  no  jot 

Of  love's  dislike,  or  pride,  was  to  be  found, — 

Whom  He  therefore  with  equal  honor  crowned. 

With  Him  He  reigned  before  all  time  prescribed, 
In  endless  glory  and  immortal  might, 

Together  with  that  Third  from  them  derived, 

Most  wise,  most  holy,  most  Almighty  Sprite, 
Whose  kingdom's  throne  no  thoughts  of  earthly  wight 

Can  comprehend,  much  less  my  trembling  verse 

With  equal  words  can  hope  it  to  rehearse. 


•  Eyas,  young,  newly  fledged ;  a  young  hawk  uot  fit  for  flight 
2 


14  EDMUND    SPENSER. 


Yet,  0  most  blessed  Spirit !  pure  lamp  of  light, 
Eternal  spring  of  grace  and  wisdom  true, 

Vouchsafe  to  shed  into  my  barren  sprite 
Some  little  drop  of  thy  celestial  dew, 
That  may  my  rhymes  with  sweet  infuse  imbrue, 

And  give  me  words  equal  unto  my  thought, 

To  tell  the  marvels  by  thy  mercy  wrought. 

Yet  being  pregnant  still  with  powerful  grace, 
And  full  of  fruitful  love,  that  loves  to  get 

Things  like  Himself,  and  to  enlarge  his  race, 

His  second  brood,  though  not  of  power  so  great, 
Yet  full  of  beauty,  next  He  did  beget 

An  infinite  increase  of  angels  bright, 

All  glist'ning  glorious  in  their  Maker's  light. 

To  show  the  heaven's  illimitable  height, 

(Not  this  round  heaven  which  we  from  hence  behold,} 
Adorned  with  thousand  lamps  of  burning  light, 

And  with  ten  thousand  gems  of  shining  gold, 

He  gave  as  their  inheritance  to  hold, 
That  they  might  serve  him  in  eternal  bliss, 
And  be  partakers  of  those  joys  of  his. 

There  they  in  their  trinal  triplicities 

About  Him  wait,  and  on  his  will  depend, 

Either  with  nimble  wings  to  cut  the  skies 

When  He  them  on  his  messages  doth  send, 
Or  on  his  own  dread  presence  to  attend, 

Where  they  behold  the  glory  of  his  light, 

And  carol  hymns  of  love  both  day  arid  night. 

Both  day  and  night  is  unto  them  all  one, 

For  He  his  beams  doth  unto  them  extend, 

That  darkness  there  appeareth  never  none  ; 

Nor  hath  their  day,  nor  hath  their  bliss,  an  end, 
But  there  their  timeless  time  in  pleasure  spend ; 

Nor  ever  should  their  happiness  decay 

Had  they  not  dared  the  Lord  to  disobey. 


EDMUND    SPENSER.  l5 


But  pride,  impatient  of  long-resting  peace, 

Did  puff  them  up  with  greedy  bold  ambition, 

That  they  'gan  cast  their  state  how  to  increase 
Above  the  fortune  of  their  first  condition, 
And  sit  in  God's  own  seat  without  commission : 

The  brightest  angel,  e'en  the  child  of  light, 

Drew  millions  more  against  their  God  to  fight. 

The  Almighty,  seeing  their  so  bold  assay, 
Kindled  the  flame  of  his  consuming  ire, 

And  with  his  only  breath  them  blew  away 

From  heaven's  height,  to  which  they  did  aspire, 
To  deepest  hell  and  lake  of  damned  fire, 

Where  they  in  darkness  and  dread  horror  dwell, 

Hating  the  happy  light  from  which  they  fell. 

So  that  next  offspring  of  the  Maker's  love, 

Next  to  Himself  in  glorious  degree, 
Degenering1  to  hate,  fell  from  above 

Through  pride,  (for  pride  and  love  may  ill  agree,) 

And  now  of  sin  to  all  ensample  be. 
How  then  can  sinful  flesh  itself  assure, 
Sith  purest  angels  fell  to  be  impure  ? 

But  that  eternal  fount  of  love  and  grace, 

Still  flowing  forth  his  goodness  unto  all, 

Now  seeing  left  a  waste  and  empty  place 

In  his  wide  palace,  through  these  angels'  fall, 
Cast  to  supply  the  same,  and  to  install 

A  new  and  unknown  colony  therein, 

Whose  root  from  earth's  base  groundwork  should  begin. 

Therefore  of  clay,  base,  vile,  and  next  to  naught, 

Yet  formed  by  wondrous  skill,  and  by  his  might, 

According  to  an  heavenly  pattern  wrought, 

Which  He  had  fashioned  in  his  wise  foresight, 
He  man  did  make,  and  breathed  a  living  sprite 

Degenerating. 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


Into  his  face  most  beautiful  and  fair, 
Endued  with  wisdom's  riches,  heavenly,  rare. 

Such  He  him  made,  that  he  resemble  might 
Himself  as  mortal  thing  immortal  could ; 

Him  to  be  lord  of  every  living  wight 

He  made  by  love  out  of  his  own  like  mould, 
In  whom  He  might  his  mighty  self  behold ; 

For  love  doth  love  the  thing  beloved  to  see, 

That  like  itself  in  lovely  shape  may  be. 

But  man,  forgetful  of  his  Maker's  grace, 

No  less  than  angels  whom  he  did  ensue,1 

Fell  from  the  hope  of  promised  heavenly  place 
Into  the  mouth  of  death,  to  sinners  due, 
And  all  his  offspring  into  thraldom  threw, 

Where  they  forever  should  in  bonds  remain 

Of  never-dead,  yet  ever-dying  pain. 

Till  that  great  Lord  of  Love,  which  him  at  first 
Made  of  mere  love  and  after  liked  well, 

Seeing  him  lie  like  creature  long  accursed 
In  that  deep  horror  of  despairing  hell, 
Him  wretch  in  dole2  would  let  no  longer  dwell, 

But  cast  out  of  that  bondage  to  redeem 

And  pay  the  price,  all3  were  his  debt  extreme. 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  eternal  bliss 

In  which  He  reigned  with  his  glorious  sire, 

He  down  descended,  like  a  most  demiss4 
And  abject  thrall,  in  flesh's  frail  attire, 
That  He  for  him  might  pay  sin's  deadly  hire, 

And  him  restore  into  that  happy  state 

In  which  he  stood  before  his  hapless  fate. 

1  Follow.  *  Sorrow.  •  Although.  *  Humble. 


EDMUND    SPENSER.  1*7 


In  flesh  at  first  the  guilt  committed  was, 
Therefore  in  flesh  it  must  be  satisfied  ; 

Nor  spirit,  nor  angel,  though  they  man  surpass, 

Could  make  amends  to  God  for  man's  misguide, 
But  only  man  himself,  whose  self  did  slide  : 

So  taking  flesh  of  sacred  virgin's  womb, 

For  man's  dear  sak«  He  did  a  man  become. 

And  that  most  blessed  body,  which  was  born 
Without  all  blemish  or  reproachful  blame, 

He  freely  gave  to  be  both  rent  and  torn 

Of  cruel  hands,  who,  with  despiteful  shame 
Reviling  Him  that  them  most  vile  became, 

At  length  Him  nailed  on  a  gallow-tree, 

And  slew  the  just  by  most  unjust  decree. 

0  blessed  well  of  love  !  0  flower  of  grace  ! 

0  glorious  morning  star  !    0  lamp  of  light ! 

Most  lively  image  of  thy  father's  face, 

Eternal  King  of  Glory,  Lord  of  Might, 

Meek  Lamb  of  God  before  all  worlds  belight,1 

How  can  we  thee  requite  for  all  this  good  ? 

Or  what  can  prize  that  thy  most  precious  blood  ? 

Yet  naught  thou  ask'st  in  lieu  of  all  this  love 
But  love  of  us,  for  guerdon2  of  thy  pain. 

Ay  me  !  what  can  us  less  than  that  behove  ? 
Had  He  required  life  of  us  again, 
Had  it  been  wrong  to  ask  his  own  again  ? 

He  gave  us  life,  He  it  restored  lost ; 

Then  life  were  least  that  us  so  little  cost. 

But  He  our  life  hath  left  unto  us  free, 

Free  that  was  thrall,  and  blessed  that  was  banned,3 

Nor  aught  demands  but  that  we  loving  be, 
As  He  himself  hath  loved  us  aforehand, 
And  bound  thereto  with  an  eternal  band 

1  Named.  a  Reward.  '  Cursed 

2* 


18  EDMUND    SPENSER. 


Him  first  to  love  that  was  so  dearly  bought, 
And  next  our  brethren  to  his  image  wrought. 

Him  first  to  love  great  right  and  reason  is, 
Who  first  to  us  our  life  and  being  gave, 

And  after,  when  we  fared  had  amiss, 

Us  wretches  from  the  seconfl  death  did  save ; 
And  cast  the  food  of  life  which  now  we  have, 

Even  He  himself  in  his  dear  sacrament, 

To  feed  our  hungry  souls  unto  us  lent. 

Then  next  we  love  our  brethren  that  were  made 
Of  that  self  mould  and  that  self  Maker's  hand 

That  we,  and  to  the  same  again  shall  fade, 

Where  they  shall  have  like  heritage  of  land, 
However  here  on  higher  steps  we  stand. 

Which  also  were  with  self- same  price  redeemed 

That  we,  however  of  us  light  esteemed. 

And  were  they  not,  yet  sith  that  loving  Lord 
Commanded  us  to  love  them  for  his  sake, 

Even  for  his  sake  and  for  his  sacred  word, 
Which  is  his  last  bequest  He  to  us  spake, 
We  should  them  love,  and  with  their  needs  partake, 

Knowing  that  whatsoe'er  to  them  we  give 

We  give  to  Him  by  whom  we  all  do  live. 

Such  mercy  He  by  his  most  holy  reed1 

Unto  us  taught,  and  to  approve  it  true, 

Ensampled  it  by  his  most  righteous  deed, 
Showing  us  mercy  (miserable  crew  !) 
That  we  the  like  should  to  the  wretches  shew. 

And  love  our  brethren,  thereby  to  approve 

How  much  Himself  that  loved  us  we  love. 

1  Counsel. 


EDMCND    SPENSER.  19 


Then  rouse  thyself,  0  Earth  !  out  of  thy  soil, 

in  which  thou  wallowest  like  to  filthy  swine, 

And  dost  thy  mind  in  dirty  pleasures  moil, 
Unmindful  of  that  dearest  Lord  of  thine : 
Lift  up  to  Him  thy  heavy-clouded  eyne,1 

That  thou  in  sovereign  bounty  mayst  behold, 

And  read  through  love  his  mercies  manifold. 

Begin  from  first  where  He  encradled  was 

In  simple  cratch,2  wrapped  in  a  wad  of  hay 

Between  the  wilful  ox  and  humble  ass ; 

And  in  what  rags,  and  in  how  base  array, 
The  glory  of  our  heavenly  riches  lay, 

When  Him  the  silly  shepherds  came  to  see, 

Whom  greatest  princes  sought  on  lowest  knee. 

From  thence  read  in  the  story  of  his  life 

His  humble  carriage,  his  unfaulty  ways, 

His  cankered  foes,  his  fights,  his  toil,  his  strife, 
His  pains,  his  poverty,  his  sharp  assays, 
Through  which  He  passed  his  miserable  days, 

Offending  none,  and  doing  good  to  all, 

Yet  being  maliced  both  of  great  and  small. 

And  look,  at  last,  how  of  most  wretched  wights 
He  taken  was,  betrayed,  and  false  accused ; 

How  with  lies,  scornful  taunts,  and  fell  despites 
He  was  reviled,  disgraced,  and  foul  abused  ; 
How  scourged,  how  crowned,    how  buffeted,  how 
bruised ; 

And  lastly,  how  'twixt  robbers  crucified, 

With  bitter  wound  through  hands,  through  feet,  and  side  ! 

Then  let  thy  flinty  heart,  that  feels  no  pain, 

Empierced  be  with  pitiful  remorse  ; 
And  let  thy  bowels  bleed  in  every  vein 

1  Eyes.  2  Manger. 


20  EDMUND    SPENSER. 


At  sight  of  his  most  sacred  heavenly  corse, 
So  torn  and  mangled  with  malicious  force  ; 
And  let  thy  soul,  whose  sins  and  sorrows  wrought, 
Melt  into  tears,  and  groan  in  grieved  thought. 

With  sense  thereof,  while  thy  so  softened  spirit 
Is  inly  touched  and  humbled  with  meek  zeal, 

Through  meditation  of  his  endless  merit, 

Lift  up  thy  mind  to  th'  Author  of  thy  weal, 
And  to  his  sovereign  mercy  do  appeal ; 

Learn  Him  to  love  that  loved  thee  so  dear, 

And  in  thy  breast  his  blessed  image  bear. 

With  all  thy  heart,  with  all  thy  soul  and  mind, 

Thou  must  Him  love,  and  his  behests  embrace ; 

All  other  loves  with  which  the  world  doth  blind 
Weak  fancies,  and  stir  up  affections  base, 
Thou  must  renounce  and  utterly  displace, 

And  give  thyself  unto  Him  full  and  free, 

That  full  and  freely  gave  Himself  to  thee. 

Then  shalt  thou  feel  thy  spirit  so  possessed, 
And  ravished  with  devouring  great  desire 

Of  his  dear  self,  that  shall  thy  feeble  breast 
Inflame  with  love,  and  set  thee  all  on  fire 
With  burning  zeal  through  every  part  entire, 

That  in  no  earthly  thing  thou  shalt  delight 

But  in  his  sweet  and  amiable  sight. 

Thenceforth  all  world's  desire  will  in  thee  die, 
And  all  earth's  glory  on  which  men  do  gaze 

Seem  dust  and  dross  in  thy  pure-sighted  eye, 
Compared  to  that  celestial  beauty's  blaze, 
Whose  glorious  beams  all  fleshly  sense  doth  daze 

With  admiration  of  their  passing  light, 

Blinding  the  eyes  and  lumining  the  sprite. 


EDMUND    SPENSER.  21 


Then  shall  thy  ravished  soul  inspired  be, 

With  heavenly  thoughts,  far  above  human  skill ; 

And  thy  bright  radiant  eyes  shall  plainly  see 
Th'  idea  of  his  pure  glory  present  still 
Before  thy  face,  that  all  thy  spirit  shall  fill 

With  sweet  enragement  of  celestial  love, 

Kindled  through  sight  of  those  fair  things  above. 


FROM  THE  HYMN  OF  HEAVENLY  BEAUTY. 

BUT  whoso  may,  thrice  happy  man  him  hold, 

Of  all  on  earth,  whom  God  so  much  doth  grace, 

And  lets  his  own  beloved  to  behold ; 

For  in  the  view  of  her  celestial  face 

All  joy,  all  bliss,  all  happiness  have  place  : 

Not  aught  on  earth  can  want  unto'the  wight, 

Who  of  herself  can  win  the  wishful  sight. 

For  she  out  of  her  secret  treasury 

Plenty  of  riches  forth  on  him  will  pour, 

E'en  heavenly  riches,  which  there  hidden  lie, 
Within  the  closet  of  her  chastest  bower, 
Th'  eternal  portion  of  her  precious  dower, 

Which  mighty  God  hath  given  to  her  free, 

And  to  all  those  which  thereof  worthy  be. 

None  thereof  worthy  be  but  those  whom  she 
Vouchsafeth  to  her  presence  to  receive, 

And  letteth  them  her  lovely  face  to  see, 

Whereof  such  wondrous  pleasures  they  conceive, 
And  sweet  contentment,  that  it  doth  bereave 

Their  soul  of  sense,  through  infinite  delight, 

And  them  transport  from  flesh  into  the  sprite ; 

In  which  they  see  such  admirable  things, 

As  carries  them  into  an  ecstasy, 
And  hear  such  heavenly  notes  and  carolings 


22  EDMUND    SPENSER. 


Of  God's  high  praise,  that  fills  the  brazen  sky, 
And  feel  such  joy  and  pleasure  inwardly, 

That  maketh  them  all  worldly  cares  forget, 

And  only  think  on  that  before  them  set. 

Nor  from  thenceforth  doth  any  fleshly  sense, 
Or  idle  thought  of  earthly  things,  remain  ; 

But  all  that  erst  seemed  sweet  seems  now  offence, 
And  all  that  pleased  erst  now  seems  to  pain ; 
Their  joy,  their  comfort,  their  desire,  their  gain, 

Is  fixed  all  on  that  which  now  they  see ; 

All  other  sights  but  feigned  shadows  be. 

And  that  fair  lamp,  which  useth  to  inflame 

The  hearts  of  men  with  self-consuming  fire, 

Thenceforth  seems  foul  and  full  of  sinful  blame  ; 
And  all  that  pomp  to  which  proud  men  aspire 
By  name  of  honor,  and  so  much  desire, 

Seems  to  them  baseness,  and  all  riches  dross, 

And  all  mirth  sadness,  and  all  lucre  loss. 

So  full  their  eyes  are  of  that  glorious  sight, 
And  senses  fraught  with  such  satiety, 

That  in  naught  else  on  earth  they  can  delight, 
But  in  th'  respect  of  that  felicity, 
Which  they  have  written  in  their  inward  eye, 

On  which  they  feed,  and  in  their  fattened  mind, 

All  happy  joy  and  full  contentment  find. 

Ah,  then,  my  hungry  soul !  which  long  hast  fed 
On  idle  fancies  of  thy  foolish  thought, 

And,  with  false  beauties'  flattering  bait  misled, 
Hast  after  vain  deceitful  shadows  sought, 
Which  all  are  fled,  and  now  have  left  thee  naught 

But  late  repentance,  through  thy  follies'  prief ;' 

Ah  !  cease  to  gaze  on  matter  of  thy  grief, 

1  Proof. 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


And  look  at  last  up  to  that  Sovereign  Light, 

From  whose  pure  beams  all  perfect  beauty  springs, 

That  kindleth  love  in  every  godly  sprite, 

Even  the  love  of  God,  which  loathing  brings 
Of  this  vile  world  and  these  gay-seeming  things  ; 

With  whose  sweet  pleasures  being  so  possessed, 

Thy  straying  thoughts  henceforth  forever  rest. 

THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 

AND  is  there  care  in  heaven,  and  is  there  love 

In  Jieavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 

There  is, — else  much  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts.     But,  oh  !  th'  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 

And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
/That  blessed  angels  He  sends  to  and  fro 
\To  serve  to  wicked  men,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe  ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave 

To  come  to  succor  us,  that  succor  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 

The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant, 

Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch,  and  duly  ward, 

And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant, 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward  : 
Oh  !  why  should  heavenly  God  to  man  have  such  regard  ! 


WISDOM,  TRUE  RICHES. 

Ix  vain  do  men 

The  heavens  of  their  fortune's  fault  accuse, 
Sith  they  know  best  what  is  the  best  for  them  ; 
For  they  to  each  such  fortune  do  diffuse 
As  they  do  know  each  can  most  aptly  use. 


24  MICHAEL    DRAYTON. 


For  not  that  which  men  covet  most  is  best, 

Nor  that  thing  worst  which  men  do  most  refuse  ; 
But  fittest  is,  that  all  contented  rest 
With  that  they  hold  :  each  hath  his  fortune  in  his  breast. 

It  is  the  mind  that  maketh  good  or  ill, 

That  maketh  wretch1  or  happy,  rich  or  poor ; 
For  some  that  hath  abundance  at  his  will, 

Hath  not  enough,  but  wants  in  greater  store ; 

And  other,  that  hath  little,  asks  no  more, 
But  in  that  little  is  both  rich  and  wise  ; 

For  wisdom  is  most  riches  :  fools  therefore 
They  are  which  fortune  do  by  vows  devise, 
Sith  each  unto  himself  his  life  may  fortunize. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

THIS  poet  was  born  at  Harshull,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  about 
the  year  1563.  We  can  only  discover  these  facts  concerning  his 
life  : — that  in  boyhood  he  was  placed  as  page  with  some  honorable 
person, — that  he  studied  at  Oxford, — that  Sir  Henry  Gooden,  of  Poles- 
worth,  was  his  patron, — that  in  his  latter  days,  Sir  Walter  Aston,  of 
Tixal,  Staffordshire,  loved  his  company,  and  was  his  friend ; — and  that 
he  was  made  Laureate,  to  which  office,  at  that  time,  there  was  no 
emolument  attached.  His  principal  works  are  the  "  Poly-Olbion," 
"  The  Barons'  Wars,"  "  England's  Heroic  Epistles,"  "  Legends,"  and 
"  Minor  Poems,"  among  which  is  "  The  Birth  and  Miracles  of  Moses," 
all  of  which  bear  abundant  proofs  of  erudition  and  genius.  He  died 
in  1631. 

MOSES  MEETING  THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  JETHRO. 

To  Midian  now  his  pilgrimage  he  took, 

Midian,  earth's  only  paradise  for  pleasures  ; 

Where  many  a  soft  rill,  many  a  sliding  brook, 

Through  the  sweet  valleys  trip  in  wanton  measures ; 

1  Wretched. 


MICHAEL    DRAYTON.  25 


Where  as  the  curled  groves  and  flowery  fields 
To  his  free  soul  so  peaceable  and  quiet, 

More  true  delight  and  choice  contentment  yields 
Than  Egypt's  braveries  and  luxurious  diet : 

And  wandering  long  he  happened  on  a  well, 
Which  he  by  paths  frequented  might  espy, 

Bordered  with  trees  where  pleasure  seemed  to  dwell, 
Where,  to  repose  him  easily,  down  doth  lie  : 

Where  the  soft  winds  did  mutually  embrace 
In  the  cool  arbors  nature  there  had  made, 

Fanning  their  sweet  breath  gently  in  his  face, 

Through  the  calm  cincture  of  the  amorous  shade  : 

Till  now  it  nighed  the  noon-stead  of  the  day, 

When  scorching  heat  the  gadding  herds  do  grieve, 

When  shepherds  now,  and  herdsmen  every  way, 
Their  thirsting  cattle  to  the  fountain  drive  : 

Amongst  the  rest  seven  shepherdesses  went 
Along  the  way  for  watering  of  their  sheep, 

Whose  eyes  him  seemed  such  reflections  sent 

As  made  the  flocks  more  white  that  they  did  keep 

Girls  that  so  goodly  and  delightful  were, 

The  fields  were  fresh  and  fragrant  in  their  view, 

Winter  was  as  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 

The  grass  so  proud  that  in  their  footsteps  grew : 

Daughters  they  were  unto  a  holy  man, 

(And  worthy,  too,  of  such  a  sire  to  be,) 

Jethro,  the  priest  of  fertile  Midian, 

Few  found  so  just,  so  righteous  man  as  he. 

But  see  the  rude  swain,  the  untutored  slave, 
Without  respect  or  reverence  to  their  kind, 

Away  their  fair  flocks  from  the  water  drave  ; 
Such  is  the  nature  of  the  barbarous  hind. 
3 


MICHAEL    DRAYTON. 


The  maids,  perceiving  where  a  stranger  sat, 

Of  whom  those  clowns  so  basely  did  esteem, 

Were  in  his  presence  discontent  thereat, 

Whom  he  perhaps  improvident  might  deem  ; 

Which  he  perceiving,  kindly  doth  entreat, 

Reproves  the  rustics  for  that  offered  wrong, 

Averring  it  an  injury  too  great ; 

To  such,  of  right,  all  kindness  did  belong. 

But  finding  well  his  oratory  fail, 

His  fists  about  him  frankly  he  bestows ; 

That  where  persuasion  could  not  late  prevail, 
He  yet  compelleth  quickly  by  his  blows. 

Entreats  the  damsels  their  abodes  to  make, 

With  courtly  semblance  and  a  manly  grace, 

At  their  fair  pleasures  quietly  to  take 

What  might  be  had  by  freedom  of  the  place. 

Whose  beauty,  shape,  and  courage  they  admire, 
Exceeding  these  the  honor  of  his  mind  ; 

For  what  in  mortal  could  their  hearts  desire 
That  in  this  man  they  did  not  richly  find  ? 

Returning  sooner  than  their  usual  hour, 

All  that  had  happened  to  their  father  told : 

That  such  a  man  relieved  them  by  his  power, 
As  one  all  civil  courtesy  that  could : 

Who  full  of  bounty,  hospitably  meek, 

Of  his  behavior  greatly  pleased  to  hear  ; 

Forthwith  commands  his  servants  him  to  seek, 
To  honor  him  by  whom  his  honored  were : 

Gently  receives  him  to  his  goodly  seat, 

Feasts  him,  his  friends  and  families  among, 

And  with  him  all  those  offices  entreat, 

That  to  his  place  and  virtues  might  belong  : 


MICHAEL    DUAYTON.  27 


Whilst  in  the  beauty  of  those  goodly  dames, 

Wherein  wise  nature  her  own  skill  admires, 

He  feeds  those  secret  and  unpiercing  flames, 

Nursed  in  fresh  youth  and  gotten  in  desires  : 

Won  with  this  man,  this  princely  priest  to  dwell, 
For  greater  hire  than  bounty  could  devise  ; 

For  her  whose  praise,  makes  praise  itself  excel, 
Fairer  than  fairness,  and  as  wisdom  wise  : 

In  her,  her  sisters  severally  were  seen, 
Of  every  one  she  was  the  rarest  part, 

Who  in  her  presence  any  time  had  been, 

Her  angel  eye  transpierced,  not  her  heart. 

For  Zipporah,  a  shepherd's  life  he  leads, 

And  in  her  sight  deceives  the  subtil  hours  ; 

And  for  her  sake  oft  roves  the  flowery  meads 

With  those  sweet  spoils  to  enrich  her  rural  bowers. 

Up  to  Mount  Horeb  with  his  flock  he  took, 

The  flock  wise  Jethro  willed  him  to  keep  ; 

Which  well  he  guarded  with  his  shepherd's  crook, 
Goodly  the  shepherd,  goodly  were  the  sheep  : 

To  feed  and  fold  full  warily  he  knew, 

From  fox  and  wolf  his  wandering  flocks  to  free. 
The  goodliest  flowers  that  in  the  meadows  grew, 

Were  not  more  fresh  and  beautiful  than  he. 

Gently  his  fair  flocks  lessowed  he  along, 

Through  the  trim  pastures  freely  at  his  leisure, 

Now  on  the  hills,  the  valleys  then  among, 

Which  seem  themselves  to  offer  to  his  pleasure  ; 

Whilst  feathered  sylvans  from  each  blooming  spray, 
With  murmuring  waters  whistling  as  they  creep, 

Make  him  such  music  to  abridge  the  way, 
As  fits  a  shepherd  company  to  keep. 


28  MICHAEL    DRAYTOlf. 


When,  lo  !  that  great  and  fearful  God  of  might 
To  that  fair  Hebrew  strangely  doth  appear, 

In  a  bush,  burning  visible  and  bright, 

Yet  unconsuming,  as  no  fire  there  were  : 

With  hair  erected,  and  upturned  eyes, 

Whilst  he,  with  great  astonishment  admires, 

Lo  !  that  Eternal  Rector  of  the  skies 

Thus  breathes  to  Moses  from  those  quickening  fires : 

"  Shake  off  thy  sandals,"  saith  the  thundering  God, 
"  With  humbled  feet  my  wondrous  power  to  see ; 

For  that  the  soil  where  thou  hast  boldly  trod, 
Is  most  select  and  hallowed  unto  me  : 

"  The  righteous  Abraham  for  his  God  me  knew, 

Isaac  and  Jacob  trusted  in  my  name, 
And  did  believe  my  covenant  was  true, 

Which  to  their  seed  shall  propagate  the  same. 

"  My  folk  that  long  in  Egypt  had  been  barred, 

Whose  cries  have  entered  heaven's  eternal  gate, 

Our  zealous  mercy  openly  hath  heard, 

Kneeling  in  tears  at  our  Eternal  State  ; 

"  And  am  come  down,  then,  in  the  land  to  see, 

Where  streams  of  milk  through  fruitful  valleys  flow, 

And  luscious  honey  dropping  from  the  tree, 

Load  the  full  flowers  that  in  their  shadows  grow : 

"  By  thee  my  power  am  purposed  to  try, 

That  from  rough  bondage  shalt  the  Hebrews  bring, 
Bearing  that  great  and  fearful  embassy 

To  that  monarchaic  and  imperious  king. 

"  And  on  this  mountain,  standing  in  thy  sight, 

When  thou  returnest  from  that  conquered  land, 

Thou  hallowed  altars  unto  me  shalt  light, 
This  for  a  token  certainly  shall  stand." 


MICHAEL    DRAYTON.  29 


VIRTUE  NOT  HEREDITARY. 

THAT  height  and  godlike  purity  of  mind 

Resteth  not  still  where  titles  most  adorn  ; 

With  any,  not  peculiarly  confined 

To  names,  and  to  be  limited  doth  scorn : 

Man  doth  the  most  degenerate  from  kind, 

Richest  and  poorest,  both  alike  are  born ; 

And  to  be  always  pertinently  good, 

Follows  not  still  the  greatness  of  our  blood. 

Pity  it  is,  that  to  one  virtuous  man 

That  mark  him  lent,  to  gentry  to  advance, 

Which,  first  by  noble  industry  he  wan, 
His  baser  issue  after  should  enhance  ; 

And  the  rude  slave  not  any  good  that  can 

Such  should  thrust  down  by  what  is  his  by  chance. 

As  had  not  he  been  first  that  him  did  raise, 

Ne'er  had  his  great  heir  wrought  his  grandsire's  praise. 

You  that  but  boast  your  ancestor's  proud  style, 

And  the  large  stem  whenqe  your  vain  greatness  grew; 

When  you  yourselves  are  ignorant  and  vile, 
Nor  glorious  thing  dare  actually  pursue, 

That  all  good  spirits  would  utterly  exile, 

Doubting  their  worth  should  else  discover  you, 

Giving  yourselves  unto  ignoble  things — 

Base,  I  proclaim  you,  though  derived  from  kings. 

Virtue,  but  poor,  God  in  this  earth  doth  place, 

'Gainst  this  rude  world  to  stand  upon  his  right; 
To  suffer  sad  affliction  and  disgrace, 

Not  ceasing  to  pursue  her  with  despite : 
Yet  when  of  all  she  is  accounted  base, 

And  seeming  in  most  miserable  plight, 
Out  of  her  power  new  life  to  her  doth  take  : 
Least  then  dismayed,  when  all  do  her  forsake. 
3* 


30  SIR    HENRY    WOTTON. 


That  is  the  man  of  an  undaunted  spirit, 

For  her  dear  sake  that  offereth  him  to  die  ; 

For  whom  when  him  the  world  doth  disinherit, 
Looketh  upon  it  with  a  pleased  eye  ; 

What's  done  for  virtue  thinking  it  doth  merit, 
Daring  the  proudest  menaces  defy  ; 

More  worth  than  life,  howe'er  the  base  world  rate  him, 

Beloved  of  heaven,  although  the  world  doth  hate  him. 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 

THIS  elegant  writer  was  born  in  Kent,  in  1 568.  He  was  appointed 
to  several  public  offices  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  ;  but  after  a  while  he 
fell  into  disgrace,  and  then  he  lived  abroad,  till  the  accession  of  James 
I.,  when  he  was  appointed  ambassador  to  Venice.  He  was  the  author 
of  a  variety  of  works,  chiefly  upon  political  subjects  ;  of  some  of  a  re- 
ligious character,  and  of  a  few  poetical  pieces  of  great  beauty.  He 
died  in  1640. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  VANITIES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

FAREWELL,  ye  gilded  follies,  pleasing  troubles  ; 

Farewell,  ye  honored  rags,  ye  glorious  bubbles  ; 

Fame's  but  a  hollow  echo  ;  gold,  pure  clay  ; 

Honor,  the  darling  but  of  one  short  day  ; 

Beauty,  the  eye's  idol,  a  damasked  skin  ; 

State,  but  a  golden  prison  to  live  in, 

And  torture  free-born  minds  ;  embroidered  trains, 

Merely  but  pageants  for  proud  swelling  veins  ; 

And  blood  allied  to  greatness  is  alone 

Inherited,  not  purchased,  nor  our  own  : 

Fame,  honor,  beauty,  state,  train,  blood,  and  birth, 
Are  but  the  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth. 


SIR    HENRY    WOTTON.  31 

I  would  be  great,  but  that  the  sun  doth  still 

Level  his  rays  against  the  rising  hill ; 

I  would  be  high,  but  see  the  proudest  oak 

Most  subject  to  the  rending  thunder-stroke ; 

I  would  be  rich,  but  see  men  too  unkind 

Dig  in  the  bowels  of  the  richest  mind  ; 

I  would  be  wise,  but  that  I  often  see 

The  fox  suspected,  while  the  ass  goes  free  ; 

I  would  be  fair,  but  see  the  fair  and  proud, 

Like  the  bright  sun,  oft  setting  in  a  cloud  ; 

I  would  be  poor,  but  know  the  humble  grass, 

Still  trampled  on  by  each  unworthy  ass  : 

Rich,  hated  ;  wise,  suspected  ;  scorned,  if  poor  ; 

Great,  feared  ;  fair,  tempted  ;  high,  still  envied  more, 
I  have  wished  all ;  but  now  I  wish  for  neither — 
Great,  high,  rich',  wise,  nor  fair, — -poor  I'll  be  rather. 

Would  the  world  now  adopt  me  for  her  heir, 
Would  Beauty's  queen  entitle  me  "the  Fair," 
Fame  speak  me  Fortune's  minion  ;  could  I  vie 
Angels  with  India  ;  with  a  speaking  eye 
Command  bare  heads,  bowed  knees,  strike  justice  dumb, 
As  well  as  blind  and  lame,  or  give  a  tongue 
To  stones  by  epitaphs  ;  be  called  "  Great  Master," 
In  the  loose  rhymes  of  every  poetaster  ; 
Could  I  be  more  than  any  man  that  lives, 
Great,  fair,  rich,  wise,  in  all  superlatives  ; 
Yet  I  more  freely  would  these  gifts  resign, 
Than  ever  fortune  would  have  made  them  mine, 
And  hold  one  minute  of  this  holy  leisure, 
Beyond  the  riches  of  this  empty  pleasure. 

Welcome,  pure  thoughts,  welcome,  ye  silent  groves, 
These  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly  loves : 
Now  the  winged  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  Spring ; 
A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  looking-glass, 
In  which  I  will  adore  sweet  Virtue's  face. 


32  SIR    HENRY    WOTTON. 

Here  dwell  no  hateful  looks,  no  palace-cares, 
No  broken  vows  dwell  here,  nor  pale-faced  fears. 
Then  here  I'll  sit  and  sigh  my  hot  love's  folly, 
And  learn  t'  affect  an  holy  melancholy  ; 
And  if  contentment  be  a  stranger  then, 
I'll  ne'er  look  for  it  but  in  heaven  again. 


THE      HAPPY      LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will, 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath. 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good. 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat, 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great. 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend, 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


BARNABE  BARNES.  33 


BARNABE   BARNES. 

THIS  Poet,  who  was  flattered  by  his  friends  with  the  title  of  "  Pe- 
trarch's Scholar,"  was  a  younger  son  of  Dr.  Richard  Barnes,  bishop 
of  Durham,  and  was  bora  about  the  year  1569.  He  left  Oxford  with- 
out a  degree,  and  afterwards  accompanied  the  expedition  sent  into 
France  under  the  Earl  of  Essex,  in  1591.  He  was  then  a  little  more 
than  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  in  the  bur  years  of  his  absence  he 
wrote  his  "  Divine  Centurie  of  Spiritual  Sonnets,"  first  published  in 
1595. 

CONTENT. 

AH  !  sweet  Content,  where  is  thy  mild  abode  ? 

Is  it  with  shepherds  and  light-hearted  swains, 
Which  sing  upon  the  downs  and  pipe  abroad, 

Leading  their  flocks  and  calling  unto  plains ! 

Ah  !  sweet  Content,  where  dost  thou  safely  rest  ? 
In  heaven  with  angels  which  the  praises  sing 
Of  Him  that  made  and  rolls  at  his  behest, 

The  minds,  and  parts  of  every  living  thing ! 

Ah !  sweet  Content,  where  doth  thine  harbor  hold  ? 
Is  it  in  churches  with  religious  men 
Which  praise  the  Gods  with  prayers  manifold, 

And  in  their  studies  meditate  it  then  ? 

Whether  thou  dost  in  heaven  or  earth  appear, 

Be  where  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt  not  harbor  here. 

PRAYER. 

UNTO  my  spirit  lend  an  angel's  wing, 

By  which  it  might  mount  to  that  place  of  rest, 

Where  Paradise  may  me  relieve  oppressed  : 

Lend  to  my  tongue  an  angel's  voice  to  sing 

TSiy  praise  my  comfort ;  and  forever  bring 

My  notes  thereof  from  the  bright  East  to  West ; 

Thy  mercy  lend  unto  my  soul  distressed, 


34  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


Thy  grace  unto  my  wits ;  then  shall  the  sling 
Of  righteousness  that  monster  Sathan  kill, 
Who  with  despair  my  dear  salvation  dared ; 
And,  like  the  Philistine,  stood  breathing  still 
Proud  threats  against  my  soul  for  heaven  prepared. 
At  length  I  like  an  angel  shall  appear 
In  spotless  white,  an  angel's  robe  to  wear. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 

SIR  JOHN  DAVIES  was  born  at  Tisbury  in  Wiltshire,  in  1570.  Ho 
was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  after  having  been  called  to  the  bar,  he 
was  expelled,  and  returned  to  the  University.  While  here,  he  com- 
posed his  principal  work,  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Immortality  of  the 
Soul."  A  few  years  after  he  was  sent  to  Parliament,  and  restored  to 
his  rank  at  the  bar.  He  filled  several  judicial  offices  in  Ireland,  under 
James  I.,  and  was  finally  appointed  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench, 
but  he  died  before  he  could  undertake  the  duties  of  the  office.  This 
happened  in  1626.  He  was  the  author  of  several  works  upon  histori- 
cal and  legal  subjects,  but  is  here  noticed  on  account  of  his  noble 
poem,  "  The  Immortality  of  the  Soul,"  which  is  remarkable  for  the 
clear  and  logical  conduct  of  the  argument,  and,  considering  the  age  in 
which  it  was  written,  for  the  smooth  and  equable  flow  of  the  verse. 
Mr.  Wilmot  observes,  "  While  Shakspere  was  peopling  the  stage  with 
picturesque  pageantry,  and  Spenser,  in  the  zenith  of  his  reputation, 
was  irradiating  the  intellectual  atmosphere  with  the  sunshine  of  his 
beautiful  imagination,  Davies  struck  into  a  path  in  which  he  had  no 
forerunner,  and  cannot  be  said  to  have  had  any  successor." 

FALSE  AND  TRUE  KNOWLEDGE. 

WHY  did  my  parents  send  me  to  the  schools, 

That  I  with  knowledge  might  enrich  my  mind, 

Since  the  desire  to  know  first  made  men  fools, 
And  did  corrupt  the  root  of  all  mankind  ? 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIE3.  35 


For  when  God's  hand  had  written  in  the  hearts 
Of  the  first  parents  all  the  rules  of  good, 

So  that  their  skill  infused,  did  pass  all  arts 

That  ever  were,  before,  or  since  the  flood ; 

And  when  their  reason's  eye  was  sharp  and  clear, 

And  (as  an  eagle  can  behold  the  sun) 
Could  have  approached  the  eternal  light  as  near 

As  th'  intellectual  angels  could  have  done ; 

E'en  then  to  show,  the  spirit  of  lies  suggests, 

That  they  were  blind  because  they  saw  not  ill ; 

And  breathed  into  their  uncorrupted  breasts 

A  curious  wish  which  did  corrupt  their  will. 

For  that  same  ill  they  did  desire  to  know, 

Which  ill  being  naught  but  a  defect  of  good, 

In  all  God's  works  the  devil  could  not  show, 

While  man  their  lord  in  his  perfection  stood. 

So  that  themselves  were  first  to  do  the  ill, 

Ere  they  thereof  the  knowledge  could  attain, 

Like  him  that  knew  not  poison's  power  to  kill, 
Until  (by  tasting  it)  himself  was  slain. 

E'en  so  by  tasting  of  that  fruit  forbid, 

Where  they  sought  knowledge,  they  did  error  find ; 
111  they  desired  to  know,  and  ill  they  did ; 

And  to  give  passion  eyes,  made  reason  blind. 

For  then  their  minds  did  first  in  passion  see 

Those  wretched  shapes  of  misery  and  wo — 

Of  nakedness,  of  shame,  of  poverty, 

Which  then  their  own  experience  made  them  know. 

But  then  grew  reason  dark,  that  she  no  more 

Could  the  fair  forms  of  good  and  truth  discern ; 

Bats  they  became,  that  eagles  were  before, 

And  this  they  got  by  their  desire  to  learn. 


36  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


But  we,  their  wretched  offspring,  what  do  we  ? 

Do  not  we  still  taste  of  the  fruit  forbid, 
Whilst  with  fond  fruitless  curiosity 

In  books  profane  we  seek  for  knowledge  hid  ? 

What  is  this  knowledge,  but  thj  sky-stolen  fire, 

For  which  the  thief  still  chained  in  ice  doth  sit  ? 

And  which  the  poor  rude  satyr. did  admire, 

And  needs  would  kiss,  but  burnt  his  lips  with  it  ? 

In  fine,  what  is  it,  but  the  fiery  coach, 

Which  the  youth  sought  and  found  his  death  withal  ? 
Or  the  boy's  wings,  which  when  he  did  approach 

The  sun's  hot  beams,  did  melt  and  let  him  fall  ? 

And  yet,  alas,  when  all  our  lamps  are  burned, 
Our  bodies  wasted,  and  our  spirits  spent ; 

When  we  have  all  the  learned  volumes  turned 

Which  yield  men's  wits  both  help  and  ornament ; 

What  can  we  know  ?  or  what  can  we  discern, 

When  error  chokes  the  windows  of  the  mind  ? 

The  divers  forms  of  things,  how  can  we  learn, 

That  have  been  even  from  our  birthday  blind  ? 

When  Reason's  lamp,  which  (like  the  sun  in  sky) 

Throughout  man's  little  world  her  beams  did  spread, 

Is  now  become  a  sparkle,  which  doth  lie 

Under  the  ashes,  half  extinct  and  dead  : 

How  can  we  hope  that  through  the  eye  and  ear 
This  dying  sparkle,  in  this  cloudy  place, 

Can  recollect  these  beams  of  knowledge  clear* 

Which  were  infused  in  the  first  minds  by  grace  ? 

So  might  the  heir,  whose  father  hath  in  play 
Wasted  a  thousand  pounds  of  ancient  rent, 

By  painful  earnings  of  one  groat  a  day, 
Hope  to  restore  the  patrimony  spent. 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIES.  37 


The  wits  that  dived  most  deep  and  soared  most  high, 

Seeking  man's  powers,  have  found  his  weakness  such : 

"  Skill  comes  so  slow,  and  life  so  fast  doth  fly, 
We  learn  so  little  and  forget  so  much." 

For  this  the  wisest  of  all  mortal  men 

Said,  he  knew  naught,  but  that  he  naught  did  know ; 
And  the  great  mocking-master  mocked  not  then 

When  he  said  truth  was  buried  deep  below. 

For  how  may  we  to  other  things  attain, 

When  none  of  us  his  own  soul  understands  ? 

For  which  the  devil  mocks  our  curious  brain, 

When  "  Know  thyself,"  his  oracle  commands. 

For  why  should  we  the  busy  soul  believe 

When  boldly  she  concludes  of  that  and  this, 

When  of  herself  she  can  no  judgment  give, 

Nor  how,  nor  whence,  nor  where,  nor  what  she  is  ? 

All  things  without,  which  round  about  we  see, 
We  seek  to  know  and  how  therewith  to  do ; 

But  that  whereby  we  reason,  live,  and  be, 

Within  ourselves,  we  strangers  are  thereto. 

We  seek  to  know  the  moving  of  each  sphere, 

And  the  strange  cause  of  th'  ebbs  and  floods  of  Nile 

But  of  that  clock  within  our  breasts  we  bear, 
The  sable  motions  we  forget  the  while. 

We  that  acquaint  ourselves  with  every  zone, 

And  pass  both  tropics,  and  behold  each  pole, 

When  we  come  home,  are  to  ourselves  unknown, 
And  unacquainted  still  with  our  own  soul. 

We  study  speech,  but  others  we  persuade ; 

We  leech-craft  learn,  but  others  cure  with  it ; 
We  interpret  laws  which  other  men  have  made, 

But  read  not  those  which  in  our  hearts  are  writ. 
4 


38  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


Is  it  because  the  mind  is  like  the  eye, 

Through  which  it  gathers  knowledge  by  degrees, 
Whose  rays  reflect  not,  but  spread  outwardly, 

Not  seeing  itself,  when  other  things  it  sees  ? 

No,  doubtless ;  for  the  mind  can  backward  cast 
Upon  herself  her  understanding's  light ; 

But  she  is  so  corrupt  and  so  defaced, 

"As  her  own  image  doth  herself  affright. 

As  is  the  fable  of  the  lady  fair, 

Which  for  her  sin  was  turned  into  a  cow, 
When  thirsty  to  a  stream  she  did  repair, 

And  saw  herself  transformed,  she  knew  not  how  : 

At  first  she  startles,  then  she  stands  amazed ; 

At  last  with  terror  she  from  thence  doth  fly, 
And  loathes  the  watery  glass  wherein  she  gazed, 

And  shuns  it  still,  though  she  for  thirst  doth  die : 

E'en  so  man's  soul,  which  did  God's  image  bear, 

And  was,  at  first,  fair,  good,  and  spotless  pure, 

Since  with  her  sins  her  beauties  blotted  were, 

Doth  of  all  sights  her  own  sight  least  endure  : 

For  e'en  at  first  reflection  she  espies 

Such  strange  chimeras,  and  such  monsters  there, 
Such  toys,  such  antics,  and  such  vanities, 

As  she  retires,  and  shrinks  for  shame  and  fear  ; 

And  as  the  man  loves  least  at  home  to  be 

That  hath  a  sluttish  house,  haunted  with  sprites, 

So  she,  impatient  her  own  faults  to  see, 

Turns  from  herself  and  in  strange  things  delights. 

For  this  few  know  themselves  :  for  merchants  broke 
View  their  estate  with  discontent  and  pain ; 

And  seas  are  troubled  when  they  do  revoke 
Their  flowing  waves  into  themselves  again. 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIES.  39 


And  while  the  face  of  outward  things  we  find 
Pleasing  and  fair,  agreeable  and  sweety 

These  things  transport  and  carry  out  the  mind, 
That  with  herself  the  mind  can  never  meet. 

Yet  if  affliction  once  her  wars  begin, 

And  threat  the  feebler  sense  with  sword  and  fire, 
The  mind  contracts  herself,  and  shrinketh  in, 

And  to  herself  she  gladly  doth  retire  : 

As  spiders  touched,  seek  their  web's  inmost  part ; 

As  bees  in  storms  back  to  their  hives  return ; 
As  blood  in  danger  gathers  to  the  heart ; 

As  men  seek  towns  when  foes  the  country  burn. 

If  aught  can  teach  us  aught,  affliction's  looks 
(Making  us  pry  into  ourselves  so  near) 

Teach  us  to  know  ourselves  beyond  all  books, 
Or  all  the  learned  schools  that  ever  were. 

This  mistress  lately  plucked  me  by  the  ear, 

And  many  a  golden  lesson  hath  me  taught ; 

Hath  made  my  senses  quick  and  reason  clear, 
Reformed  my  will  and  rectified  my  thought. 

So  do  the  winds  and  thunder  cleanse  the  air ; 

So  working  lees  settle  and  purge  the  wine  ; 
So  lopped  and  pruned  trees  do  flourish  fair ; 

So  doth  the  fire  the  drossy  gold  refine. 

Neither  Minerva,  nor  the  learned  muse, 

Nor  rules  of  art,  nor  precepts  of  the  wise, 

Could  in  my  brain  those  beams  of  skill  infuse, 
As  but  the  glance  of  this  dame's  angry  eyes. 

She  within  lists  my  ranging  mind  hath  brought, 
That  now  beyond  myself  I  will  not  go  ; 

Myself  am  centre  of  my  circling  thought, 
Only  myself  I  study,  learn,  and  know. 


40  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


I  know  my  body's  of  so  frail  a  kind, 

As  force  without,  powers  within,  can  kill ; 

I  know  the  heavenly  nature  of  my  mind, 
But  'tis  corrupted  both  in  wit  and  will. 

I  know  myself  hath  power  to  know  all  things, 
Yet  is  she  blind  and  ignorant  in  all ; 

I  know  I'm  one  of  nature's  little  kings, 

Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 

I  know  my  life's  a  pain,  and  but  a  span  ; 

I  know  my  sense  is  mocked  in  every  thing  ; 
And  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  man, 

Which  is  a  proud,  and  yet  a  wretched  thing. 

THE    SOUL. 

THE  lights  of  heaven  (which  are  the  world's  fair  eyes) 
Look  down  into  the  world,  the  world  to  see  ; 

And  as  they  turn  or  wander  in  the  skies, 

Survey  all  things  that  on  this  centre  be. 

And  yet  the  lights  which  in  my  tower  do  shine, 
Mine  eyes  which  view  all  objects  nigh  and  far, 

Look  not  unto  this  little  world  of  mine, 

Nor  see  my  face  wherein  they  fixed  are. 

Since  nature  fails  in  us  no  needful  thinw. 

G " 

Why  want  I  means  my  inward  self  to  see  ? 
Which  sight  the  knowledge  of  myself  might  bring, 
Which  to  true  wisdom  is  the  first  degree. 

That  power  which  gave  my  eyes  the  world  to  view, 
To  view  myself  infused  an  inward  light, 

Whereby  my  soul,  as  by  a  mirror  true, 

Of  her  own  form  may  take  a  perfect  sight. 

But  as  the  sharpest  eye  discerneth  naught 

Except  the  sunbeams  in  the  air  do  shine  ; 

So  the  best  soul  with  her  reflecting  thought 
Sees  not  herself  without  some  light  divine. 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIES.  41 


Oh !  Light  which  makest  the  light,  which  makes  the  day ! 

Which  settest  the  eye  without,  and  mind  within, 
Lighten  my  soul  with  one  clear  heavenly  ray, 

Which  now  to  view  itself  doth  first  begin. 

For  her  true  form  how  can  my  spark  discern, 
Which,  dim  by  nature,  art  did  never  clear, 

When  the  great  wits,  of  whom  all  skill  we  learn, 
Are  ignorant  both  what  she  is,  and  where  ? 

One  thinks  the  soul  is  air  ;  another,  fire ; 

Another,  blood  diffused  about  the  heart; 
Another  saith  the  elements  conspire, 

And  to  her  essence  each  doth  give  a  part. 

Musicians  think  our  souls  are  harmonies  ; 

Physicians  hold  that  they  complexions  be  ; 
Epicures1  make  them  swarms  of  atomies 

Which  do  by  chance  into  our  bodies  flee. 

Some  think  our  general  soul  fills  every  brain, 
As  the  bright  sun  sheds  light  in  every  star ; 

And  others  think  the  name  of  soul  is  vain, 
And  that  we  only  well-mixed  bodies  are. 

In  judgment  of  her  substance  thus  they  vary, 
And  thus  they  do  in  judgment  of  her  seat : 

For  some  her  chain  up  to  the  brain  do  carry, 

Some  thrust  it  down  into  the  stomach's  heat ; 

Some  place  it  in  the  root  of  life,  the  heart ; 

Some  in  the  river,  fountain  of  his  veins  ; 
Some  say  she's  all  in  all,  in  every  part ; 

Some  say  she's  not  contained,  but  all  contains. 

Thus  these  great  clerks  their  little  wisdom  show, 

While  with  their  doctrines  they  at  hazard  play ; 

Tossing  their  light  opinions  to  and  fro, 

To  mock  the  lewd,2  as  learned  in  this  as  they. 

1  Epicureans.  3  Ignorant. 

4* 


42  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


For  no  crazed  brain  could  ever  yet  propound, 

Touching  the  soul,  so  vain  and  fond  a  thought ; 

But  some  among  these  masters  have  been  found, 

Which  in  their  schools  the  self-same  thing  have  taught. 

God,  only  wise,  to  punish  pride  of  wit, 

Among  men's  wits  hath  this  confusion  wrought ; 
As  the  proud  tower  whose  points  the  clouds  did  hit, 

By  tongues'  confusion  was  to  ruin  brought. 
/ 
But  Thou,  which  didst  man's  soul  of  nothing  make, 

And  when  to  nothing  it  was  fallen  again, 
"  To  make  it  new,  the  form  of  man  didst  take, 

And  God  with  God  becamest  a  man  with  men." 

Thou  that  hast  fashioned  twice  this  soul  of  ours, 

So  that  she  is  by  double  title  thine, 
Thou  only  knowest  her  nature  and  her  powers  ; 

Her  subtle  form  Thou  only  canst  define. 

To  judge  herself,  she  must  herself  transcend, 
As  greater  circles  comprehend  the  less  ; 

But  she  wants  power  her  own  powers  to  extend, 
As  fettered  men  cannot  their  strength  express. 

But  Thou  bright  morning  star,  Thou  rising  sun, 

Which  in  these  later  times  hast  brought  to  light 

Those  mysteries,  that  since  the  world  begun 
Lay  hid  in  darkness  and  eternal  night, 

Thou  (like  the  sun)  dost  with  an  equal  ray 

Into  the  palace  and  the  cottage  shine  ; 
And  showest  the  soul  both  to  the  clerk  and  lay, 

By  the  clear  lamp  of  oracle  divine. 

This  lamp  through  all  the  regions  of  my  brain, 

Where  my  soul  sits,  doth  spread  such  beams  of  grace, 

As  now  methinks  I  do  distinguish  plain 
Each  subtle  line  of  her  immortal  face. 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIE8.  43 


The  soul  a  substance  and  a  spirit  is, 

Which  God  Himself  doth  in  the  body  make, 
Which  makes  the  man  ;  for  every  man  from  this 

The  nature  of  a  man  and  name  doth  take. 

And  though  this  spirit  be  to  the  body  knit 
As  an  apt  means  her  powers  to  exercise, 

Which  are  life,  motion,  sense,  and  will  and  wit ; 
Yet  she  survives  although  the  body  dies. 


THE  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL    SHOWN  FROM  THE  UNSAT- 
ISFYING NATURE  OF  EARTHLY  ENJOYMENTS. 

AT  first  her  mother  earth  she  holdeth  dear, 

And  doth  embrace  the  world,  and  worldly  things ; 

She  flies  close  by  the  ground,  and  hovers  here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  wings  : 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  aught 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth  agree  ; 

She  cannot  rest,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought, 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honor,  wealth, 

Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment  find  ? 

Who  ever  ceased  to  wish  when  he  had  wealth  ? 
Or  having  wisdom  was  not  vexed  in  mind  ? 


Then  as  a  bee,  which  among  weeds  doth  fall, 

Which  seem  sweet  flowers  with  lustre  fresh  and  gay, 

She  lights  on  that  and  this,  and  tasteth  all ; 

But  pleased  with  none,  doth  rise  and  soar  away : 

So  when  the  soul  finds  here  no  true  content, 

And  like  Noah's  dove  can  no  sure  footing  take, 

She  doth  return  from  whence  she  first  was  sent, 

And  flies  to  Him  that  first  her  wings  did  make. 


44  SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


THE    WORTH    OF    THE    SOUL. 

OH  !  ignorant,  poor  man  !  what  dost  thou  bear 
Locked  up  within  the  casket  of  thy  breast  ? 

What  jewels,  and  what  riches,  hast  thou  there  ? 
What  heavenly  treasure  in  so  weak  a  chest  ? 

Look  in  thy  soul,  and  thou  shalt  beauties  find, 

Like  those  which  drowned  Narcissus  in  the  flood  ; 

Honor  and  pleasure  both  are  in  thy  mind, 

And  all  that  in  the  world  is  counted  good. 

Think  of  her  worth,  and  think  that  God  did  mean 

This  worthy  mind  should  worthy  things  embrace  ; 

Blot  not  her  beauties  with  thy  thoughts  unclean, 
Nor  her  dishonor  with  thy  passion  base. 

Kill  not  her  quickening  power  with  surfeitings ; 

Mar  not  her  sense  with  sensuality  ; 
Cast  not  her  serious  wit  on  idle  things  ; 

Make  not  her  free-will  slave  to  vanity. 

And  when  thou  thinkest  of  her  eternity, 

Think  not  that  death  against  our  nature  is  ; 

Think  it  a  birth,  and  when  thou  goest  to  die, 
Sing  a  like  song  as  if  thou  wentest  to  bliss. 

And  thou,  my  soul,  which  turnest  with  curious  eye, 
To  view  the  beams  of  thine  own  form  divine  ; 

Know  that  thou  canst  know  nothing  perfectly, 

While  thou  art  clouded  with  this  flesh  of  mine. 

Take  heed  of  overweening,  and  compare 

Thy  peacock's  feet  with  thy  gay  peacock's  train ; 

Study  the  best  and  highest  things  that  are, 
But  of  thyself  an  humble  thought  retain. 


FRANCIS    DAVISON.  45 

Cast  down  thyself,  and  only  strive  to  raise 
The  glory  of  thy  Maker's  sacred  name  , 

Use  all  thy  powers  that  blessed  Power  to  praise, 

Which  gives  the  power  to  be,  and  use  the  same. 


FRANCIS    DAVISON 

WAS  the  son  of  William  Davison,  the  unfortunate  secretary  of 
Queen  Elizabeth.  After  travelling  on  the  continent,  he  turned  his  at- 
tention to  poetry,  and  in  1602  he  published  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Po- 
litical Rhapsody."  He  was  one  of  the  authors  of  a  version  of  "  Selected 
Poems,"  and  Mr.  Wilmot  gives  the  following  specimens  by  him. 

PARAPHRASE    OF    PSALM    XXIII. 

GOD,  who  the  universe  doth  hold 

In  his  fold, 

Is  my  shepherd  kind  and  heedful, 
Is  my  shepherd,  and  doth  keep 

Me  his  sheep, 
Still  supplied  with  all  things  needful. 

He  feeds  me  in  fields  which  bin1 

Fresh  and  green, 

Mottled  with  Spring's  flowery  painting, 
Through  which  creep,  with  murmuring  crooks, 

Crystal  brooks, 
To  refresh  my  spirits  fainting. 

When  my  soul  from  heaven's  way 

Went  astray, 

With  earth's  vanities  seduced, 
For  his  namesake,  kindly  He, 

Wandering  me 
To  his  holy  fold  reduced.2 

'Be  '  Reduced,  led  back. 


46  FRANCIS    DAVISON. 


Yea,  though  I  stray  through  Death's  vale, 

Where  his  pale 

Shades  did  on  each  side  enfold  me, 
Dreadless,  having  Thee  for  guide, 

Should  I  bide, 
For  thy  rod  and  staff  uphold  me. 

Thou  my  board  with  messes  large 

Dost  surcharge  ; 

My  bowls  full  of  wine  thou  pourest, 
And  before  mine  enemies' 

Envious  eyes, 
Balm  upon  mine  head  thou  showerest. 

Neither  dures  thy  bounteous  grace 

For  a  space, 

But  it  knows  nor  bound,  nor  measure ; 
So  my  days,  to  my  life's  end, 

Shall  I  spend 
In  thy  courts  with  heavenly  pleasure. 


PARAPHRASE    OF    PSALM    LXXXVI. 

SAVE  my  soul  which  Thou  didst  cherish 
Until  now,  now  like  to  perish, 
Save  Thy  servant  that  hath  none 
Help,  nor  hope,  but  Thee  alone  ! 

After  Thy  sweet- wonted  fashion, 
Shower  down  mercy  and  compassion, 
On  me,  sinful  wretch,  that  cry 
Unto  Thee  incessantly. 

Send,  0  send,  relieving  gladness, 
To  my  soul  oppressed  with  sadness, 
Which,  from  clog  of  earth  set  free, 
Winged  with  zeal  springs  up  to  Thee. 


FRANCIS    DAVISON.  47 


Let  thine  ears  which  long  have  tarried 
Barred  up,  be  now  unbarred, 
That  my  cries  may  entrance  gain, 
And  being  entered,  grace  obtain. 

For  Thou,  darter  of  dread  thunders, 
Thou  art  great,  and  workest  wonders. 
Other  gods  are  wood  and  stone, 
Thou  the  living  God  alone. 

Heavenly  Tutor,  of  thy  kindness, 
Teach  my  dulness,  guide  my  blindness, 
That  my  steps  Thy  paths  may  tread 
Which  to  endless  bliss  do  lead. 

In  knots  to  be  loosed  never, 
Knit  my  heart  to  Thee  forever, 
That  I  to  Thy  name  may  bear, 
Fearful  love  and  loving  fear. 

Lord,  my  God,  thou  shalt  be  praised, 
With  my  heart  to  heaven  raised, 
And  whilst  I  have  breath  to  live, 
Thanks  to  Thee  my  breath  shall  give. 

Mighty  men  with  malice  endless, 
Band1  against  me  helpless,  friendless, 
Using,  without  fear  of  Thee, 
Force  and  fraud  to  ruin  me. 

But  Thy  might  then-  malice  passes, 
And  Thy  grace  Thy  might  surpasses, 
Swift  to  mercy,  slow  to  wrath, 
Bound  nor  end  Thy  goodness  hath. 

Thy  kind  look  no  more  deny  me, 
But  with  eyes  of  mercy  eye  me ; 

1  Unite. 


48  FRANCIS    DAVISON. 


O  give  me,  Thy  slave,  at  length, 
Easing  aid,  or  bearing  strength. 

And  some  gracious  token  show  me, 
That  my  foes  that  watch  t'  o'erthrow  me, 
May  be  shamed  and  vexed  to  see 
Thee  to  help  and  comfort  me. 

PARAPHRASE    OF    PSALM    XTII. 

LORD,  how  long,  how  long  wilt  Thou 
Quite  forget  and  quite  neglect  me  ? 

How  long  with  a  frowning  brow 

Wilt  Thou  from  thy  sight  reject  me  ? 

How  long  shall  I  seek  a  way 

From  this  range  of  thoughts  perplexed, 
Where  my  grieved  mind,  night  and  day, 

Is  with  thinking  tired  and  vexed  ! 

How  long  shall  my  stormful  foe, 
On  my  fall  his  greatness  placing, 

Build  upon  my  overthrow, 

And  be  graced  by  my  disgracing  ? 

Hear,  0  Lord  and  God,  my  cries, 
Mock  my  foe's  unjust  abusing, 

And  illuminate  mine  eyes, 

Heavenly  beams  in  them  infusing. 

Lest  my  woes  too  great  to  bear, 

And  too  infinite  hi  number, 
Rock  me  soon,  'twixt  Hope  and  Fear, 

Into  Death's  eternal  slumber. 

These  black  clouds  will  overblow, 
Sunshine  shall  have  his  returning, 

And  my  grief-dulled  heart,  I  know, 
Into  joy  shall  change  his  mourning. 


JOSEPH    BRYAN.  49 


JOSEPH  BRYAN 

WAS  apparently  a  contemporary  of  Davison.   There  is  much  beauty 
in  the  following 


PARAPHRASE    OF    PSALM    LXV. 

DWELLERS  beyond  Thule's  bands, 

In  fair  lands, 

At  thy  signs  shall  be  affrighted. 
Morn's  bright  gate,  and  ruddy  west, 

By  their  guest, 

Are  with  light  and  heat  delighted. 
Furrows  else  ploughed,  sowed  in  vain, 

By  thy  rain 

Are  with  blades  and  ears  maintained. 
Thou  sendest  rain  into  thy  dales, 

And  the  vales, 

Pranking  them  with  curious  flowers  ; 
And  the  stiffened  earth  mak'st  soft 

With  thy  oft 

Sweet  and  soft  descending  showers. 
Thou  dost  speed  the  seedman's  hand, 

In  the  land 

His  dead- seeming  seed  reviving ; 
And  the  tender  bud,  unless 

Thou  didst  bless, 

Blasts  and  frosts  would  keep  from  thriving. 
There  thy  gracious  showers  still 

Fall,  and  fill 

With  thy  blessing  barren  places  ; 
And  the  lesser  hills  are  seen, 

Fresh  and  green, 

Decked  with  Flora's  various  graces. 
5 


50  JOHN    DONNE. 


JOHN  DONNE. 

JOHN  DONNE  was  born  in  London,  in  1573.  He  entered  Hertford 
College  at  the  early  age  of  eleven,  and  became  a  prodigy  of  learning. 
He  was  bred  a  Catholic,  but  early  in  life  he  became  a  Protestant  minis- 
ter. He  died,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  in  1631.  Without  being  in  the 
strictest  sense  a  sacred  poet,  Donne  is  one  of  those  writers  who  have 
shown  their  reverence  of  religion  with  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of 
genuine  feeling.  He  is  frequently  rugged  and  obscure,  yet  he  displays 
a  depth  of  sentiment  and  an  originality  of  thought,  which  entitle  him 
to  a  rank  among  the  truest  poets. 

SACRED     SONNETS. 


THOU  hast  made  me,  and  shall  thy  work  decay  ? 

Repair  me  now,  for  now  mine  end  doth  haste  ; 

I  run  to  death,  and  death  meets  me  as  fast, 
And  all  my  pleasures  are  like  yesterday. 
I  dare  not  move  my  dim  eyes  any  way  ; 

Despair  behind,  and  death  before,  doth  cast 

Such  terror,  and  my  feeble  flesh  doth  waste 
By  sin  in  it,  which  it  towards  hell  doth  weigh, 
Only  Thou  art  above,  and  when  towards  Thee, 

By  thy  leave  I  can  look,  I  rise  again ; 
But  our  old  subtle  foe  so  tempteth  me, 

That  not  one  hour  myself  I  can  sustain  ; 
Thy  grace  may  wing  me  to  prevent  his  art, 
And  Thou  like  adamant  draw  mine  iron  heart. 

n. 

THIS  is  my  play's  last  scene  ;  here  heavens  appoint 
My  pilgrimage's  last  mile  ;  and  my  race 
Idly  yet  quickly  run,  hath  this  last  pace ; 

My  span's  last  inch,  my  minute's  latest  point ; 


JOHN    DONNE.  51 


And  gluttonous  death  will  instantly  unjoint 

My  body  and  my  soul,  and  I  shall  sleep  a  space  ; 

But  my  ever-waking  part  shall  see  that  face 
Whose  fear  already  shakes  my  every  joint : 
Then  as  my  soul,  to  heaven,  her  first  seat,  takes  flight, 

And  earth-born  body,  in  the  earth  shall  dwell, 
So  fall  my  sins,  that  all  may  have  their  right, 

To  where  they're  bred,  and  would  press  me  to  hell. 
Impute  me  righteous,  thus  purged  of  evil, 
For  thus  I  leave  the  world,  the  flesh,  the  devil. 

in. 
Ax  the  round  earth's  imagined  corners,  blow 

Your  trumpets,  angels,  and  arise,  arise 

From  death,  your  numberless  infinities 
Of  souls,  and  to  your  scattered  bodies  go 
All  whom  the  flood  did,  and  fire  shall,  o'erthrow  ; 

All  whom  war,  death,  age,  agues,  tyrannies, 

Despair,  law,  chance,  hath  slain,  and  you  whose  eyes 
Shall  behold  God,  and  never  taste  death's  wo  : 
But  let  them  sleep,  Lord,  and  me  mourn  a  space ; 

For  if  above  all  these  my  sins  abound, 
'Tis  late  to  ask  abundance  of  thy  grace 

When  we  are  there  ;  here,  on  this  lowly  ground, 
Teach  me  how  to  repent ;  for  that's  as  good 
As  if  Thou  hadst  sealed  my  pardon  with  thy  blood. 

IV. 

DEATH,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee 
Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so  ; 
For  those  whom  thou  thinkest  thou  dost  overthrow, 

Die  not,  poor  Death  ;  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  me. 

From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture  be, 

Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee,  much  more  must  flow : 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go, 

Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery. 

Thou'rt  slave  to  fate,  chance,  kings,  and  desperate  men, 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell, 


52  JOHN    DONNE. 


And  poppy  or  charms,  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 

And  better,  than  thy  stroke  ;  why  swellest  thou  then  ? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally  ; 
And  death  shall  be  no  more  ;  Death !  thou  must  die. 


ODE. 

VENGEANCE  will  sit  above  our  faults  ;  but  till 

She  there  do  sit 

We  see  her  not,  nor  them.     Thus  blind,  yet  still 
We  lead  her  way  ;  and  thus,  whilst  we  do  ill, 

We  suffer  it. 

Unhappy  he  whom  youth  makes  not  beware 

Of  doing  ill : 

Enough  we  labor  under  age  and  care  : 
In  number,  th'  errors  of  the  last  place  are 

The  greater  still. 

Yet  we,  that  should  the  ill  we  now  begin 

As  soon  repent, 

(Strange  thing !)  perceive  not ;  our  faults  are  not  seen, 
But  past  us  ;  neither  felt,  but  only  in 

The  punishment. 

But  we  know  ourselves  least ;  mere  outward  shows 

Our  minds  so  store, 

That  our  souls,  no  more  than  our  eyes,  disclose 
But  form  and  color ;  only  he  who  knows 

Himself,  knows  more. 


HYMN     TO     CHRIST. 
AT  THE  AUTHOR'S  LAST  GOING  INTO  GERMANY. 

IN  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark, 
That  ship  shall  be  my  emblem  of  thy  ark  ; 
What  sea  soever  swallow  me,  that  flood 
Shall  be  to  me  an  emblem  of  thy  blood  ; 
5* 


JOHN    DONNE.  53 


Though  Thou  with  clouds  of  anger  do  disguise 
Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I  know  those  eyes, 
Which,  though  they  turn  away  sometimes, 
They  never  will  despise. 

I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  Thee, 

And  all  whom  I  loved  there,  and  who  loved  me  ; 

When  I  have  put  our  seas  'twixt  them  and  me, 

Put  Thou  thy  seas  betwixt  my  sins  and  Thee. 

As  the  tree's  sap  doth  seek  the  root  below 

In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  go, 

Where  none  but  Thee,  th'  eternal  root 
Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 

Not  Thou  nor  thy  religion,  dost  control 
The  amorousness  of  an  harmonious  soul ; 
But  Thou  would  st  have  that  love  Thyself :  as  Thou 
Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  am  I  jealous  now, 
Thou  lovest  not,  till  from  loving  more,  Thou  free 
My  soul :  who  ever  gives,  takes  liberty  : 
Oh  !  if  Thou  carest  not  whom  I  love, 
Alas  !  Thou  lovest  not  me. 

Seal,  then,  this  bill  of  my  divorce  to  all 
On  whom  those  fainter  beams  of  love  did  fall ; 
Marry  those  loves  which  in  youth  scattered  be 
On  Fame,  Wit,  Hope,  (false  mistresses,)  to  Thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  prayer,  that  have  least  light : 
To  see  God  only,  I  go  out  of  sight, 

And  to  'scape  stormy  days,  I  choose 
An  everlasting  night. 

HYMN     TO     GOD,     MY     GOD. 

SINCE  I  am  coming  to  that  holy  room 

Where  with  the  choir  of  saints  for  evermore 

I  shall  be  made  thy  music,  as  I  come 

I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the  door, 
And  what  I  must  do  then  think  here  before. 


54  JOHN    DONNE. 


Whilst  my  physicians  by  their  love  are  grown 
Cosmographers,  and  I  their  map,  who  lie 

Flat  on  this  bed,  that  by  them  may  be  shown 
That  this  is  my  southwest  discovery, 
Per  f  return  febris,  by  these  straits  to  die  ; 

I  joy  that  in  these  straits  I  see  my  west  ; 

For  though  those  currents  yield  return  to  none, 

What  shall  my  west  hurt  me  ?  as  west  and  east 
In  all  flat  maps  (and  I  am  one)  are  one, 
So  death  doth  touch  the  resurrection. 


We  think  that  Paradise  and  Calvary, 

Christ's  cross  and  Adam's  tree,  stood  in  one  place, 

Look,  Lord  !  and  find  both  Adams  met  in  me  : 

As  the  first  Adam's  sweat  surrounds  my  face, 
May  the  last  Adam's  blood  my  soul  embrace. 

So  in  his  purple  wrapped  receive  me,  Lord, 

By  these  his  thorns  give  me  his  holy  crown, 

And  as  to  others'  souls  I  preached  thy  word, 
Be  this  my  text,  my  sermon  to  mine  own  ; 
Therefore,  that  He  may  raise,  the  Lord  throws  down 


BEN    JONSON.  55 


BEN   JONSON. 

THIS  eminent  poet  was  born  in  London  in  1574.  Though  like  many 
other  poets  of  his  day,  Jonson  too  briefly  and  too  rarely  forsook  the 
service  of  the  profaner  muse  for  that  of  religion,  the  religious  poetry 
he  has  left  behind  him  is  of  a  very  high,  order.  He  died  in  1637. 

E  U  P  II  E  M  E '  S      MIND. 

PAINTER,  you're  come,  but  may  be  gone, 
Now  I  have  better  thought  thereon ; 
This  work  I  can  perform  alone, 
And  give  you  reasons  more  than  one. 

JSTot  that  your  art  I  do  refuse, 
But  here  I  may  no  colors  use ; 
Beside,  your  hand  will  never  hit 
To  draw  a  thinsr  that  cannot  sit. 


D 


You  could  make  shift  to  paint  an  eye, 
An  eagle  tow'ring  in  the  sky, 
The  sun,  a  sea,  or  soundless  pit ; 
But  these  are  like  a  mind,  not  it. 

No  ;  to  express  a  mind  to  sense 
Would  ask  a  heaven's  intelligence ; 
Since  nothing  can  report  that  flame, 
But  what's  of  kin  to  whence  it  came. 

A  mind  so  pure,  so  perfect,  fine, 
As  'tis  not  radiant,  but  divine  ; 
And,  so  disdaining  any  tryer, 
'Tis  got  where  it  can  try  the  fire. 

There,  high  exalted  in  the  sphere, 
As  it  another  nature  were, 
It  moveth  all,  and  makes  a  flight 
As  circular  as  infinite. 


56  BEN    JONSON. 


Whose  notions,  when  it  will  express 
In  speech,  it  is  with  that  excess 
Of  grace  and  music  to  the  ear, 
As  what  it  spoke  it  planted  there. 

The  voice  so  sweet,  the  words  so  fair, 
As  some  soft  chime  had  stroked  the  air  ; 
And  though  the  sound  were  parted  thence, 
Still  left  an  echo  in  the  sense. 

But,  that  a  mind  so  rapt,  so  high, 

So  swift,  so  pure,  should  yet  apply 

Itself  to  us,  and  come  so  nigh 

Earth's  grossness  ;  there's  the  how,  and  wiry. 

Is  it  because  it  sees  us  dull, 
And  stuck  in  clay  here,  it  would  pull 
Us  forth  by  some  celestial  flight, 
Up  to  her  own  sublimed  height  ? 

Or  hath  she  here  upon  the  ground, 
Some  paradise  or  palace  found, 
In  all  the  bounds  of  beauty  fit 
For  her  to  inhabit  ?     There  is  it. 

Thrice  happy  house,  that  hast  receipt 
For  this  so  lofty  form,  so  straight, 
So  polished,  perfect,  round,  and  even, 
As  it  slid  moulded  off  from  heaven. 

Not  swelling  like  the  ocean  proud, 
But  stooping  gently  as  a  cloud : 
As  smooth  as  oil  poured  forth,  and  calm 
As  showers,  and  sweet  as  drops  of  balm. 

Smooth,  soft,  and  sweet,  in  all  a  flood 
Where  it  may  run  to  any  good ; 
And  where  it  stays,  it  there  becomes 
A  nest  of  odorous  spice  and  gums. 


THOMAS    CAREW.  57 


In  action,  winged  as  the  wind. 
In  rest,  like  spirits  left  behind 
Upon  a  bank,  or  field  of  flowers, 
Begotten  by  that  wind  and  showers. 

In  thee,  fair  mansion,  let  it  rest, 

Yet  know  with  what  thou  art  possessed  ; 

Thou  entertaining  in  thy  breast 

But  such  a  mind,  makest  God  thy  guest. 

THE    GOOD    LIFE,     LONG    LIFE. 

IT  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk  doth  make  man  better  be  ; 

Or  standing  long  an  oak  three  hundred  year, 

To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere ; 

A  lily  of  a  day 

Is  fairer  far  in  May, 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night ; 

It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


THOMAS  CAREW. 

Tins  poet  was  born  about  1577.  He  received  his  education  at  Cor- 
pus Christi  College,  Oxford,  where  his  genius  and  abilities  early  at- 
tracted notice.  He  was  introduced  to  court,  probably  by  his  brother, 
and  appointed  Gentleman  of  the  Privy  Chamber,  and  sewer  in  ordinary 
to  King  Charles  the  First ;  which  posts  he  retained  till  his  death,  in 
1639.  Carew  was  the  author  of  miscellaneous  poems,  not,  unfortu- 
nately, all  of  a  religious  nature ;  but  those  that  are  so,  have  great 
beauty  and  simplicity. 

PLEASURE. 

BEWITCHING  syren  !  golden  rottenness  ! 
Thou  hast  with  cunning  artifice  displayed 


58  THOMAS    CAREW. 


Th'  enamelled  outside,  and  the  honeyed  verge 

Of  the  fair  cup,  where  deadly  poison  lurks. 

Within,  a  thousand  sorrows  dance  the  round  ; 

And,  like  a  shell,  pain  circles  thee  without. 

Grief  is  the  shadow  waiting  on  thy  steps, 

Which,  as  thy  joys  'gin  towards  their  west  decline, 

Doth  to  a  giant's  spreading  form  extend 

Thy  dwarfish  stature.     Thou  thyself  art  pain, 

Greedy,  intense  desire  ;  and  the  keen  edge 

Of  thy  fierce  appetite  oft  strangles  thee, 

And  cuts  thy  slender  thread  ;  but  still  the  terror 

And  apprehension  of  thy  hasty  end 

Mingles  with  gall  thy  most  refined  sweets. 

Yet  thy  Circean  charms  transform  the  world. 

Captains  that  have  resisted  war  and  death, 

Nations  that  over  fortune  have  triumphed, 

Are  by  thy  magic  made  effeminate  ; 

Empires,  that  know  no  limits  but  the  poles, 

Have  in  thy  wanton  lap  melted  away. 

Thou  wert  the  author  of  the  first  excess 

That  drew  this  reformation  on  the  gods  ; 

Canst  thou,  then,  dream  those  powers  that  from  heaven 

Banished  the  effect,  will  there  enthrone  the  cause  ? 

To  thy  voluptuous  den  fly,  witch,  from  hence ; 

There  dwell,  forever  drowned  in  brutish  sense. 


GEORGE    SANDYS.  59 


GEORGE    SANDYS. 

THIS  poet  was  the  seventh  son  of  Edwin  Sandys,  archbishop  of 
York,  and  was  born  at  Bishopsthorp  in  1577.  He  was  matriculated 
at  Oxford  in  his  eleventh  year,  but  Wood  supposes  he  did  not  take  a 
degree.  In  1610,  he  set  out  on  his  travels,  during  which  he  visited 
the  most  interesting  cities  of  Europe,  and  went  to  Egypt  and  the  Ho- 
ly Land.  He  was  afterwards  treasurer  of  the  English  Company  in 
Virginia,  but  it  is  not  known  how  long  he  remained  in  this  country. 
He  published  an  account  of  his  travels,  in  London,  in  1615,  and  from 
this  time,  except  during  his  residence  in  America,  he  passed  most  of 
his  time  with  his  sister,  Lady  Wenman,  in  Oxfordshire.  In  1636,  he 
published  his  translation  of  the  Psalms,  which  the  editor  of  the  "  Gems 
of  British  Sacred  Poetry1'  thinks  "  incomparably  the  most  poetical  in 
the  English  language,"  though  at  the  present  day  scarcely  known. 
Two  years  after  he  published  his  Paraphrase  of  Job  and  Ecclesiastes, 
a  metrical  version  of  the  Song  of  Solomon,  and  a  translation  of  a  Latin 
tragedy  of  Grotius — the  Passion  of  Christ.  Sandys  died  in  March, 
1643. 

DEO     OPT.      MAX. 
WRITTEN  ON  REVIEW  OF  GOD'S  MERCIES  TO  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS  TRAVELS. 

0  THOU  who  all  things  hast  of  nothing  made, 
Whose  hand  the  radiant  firmament  displayed, 
With  such  an  undiscerned  swiftness  hurled 
About  the  steadfast  centre  of  the  world  ; 
Against  whose  rapid  course  the  restless  sun 
And  wandering  flames  in  varied  motions  run  ; 
Which  heat,  light,  life  infuse  ;  time,  night,  and  day 
Distinguish  ;  in  our  human  bodies  sway  : 
That  hungest  the  solid  earth  in  fleeting  air, 
Veined  with  clear  springs  which  ambient  seas  repair : 
In  clouds  the  mountains  wrap  their  heavy  heads ; 
Luxurious  valleys  clothed  with  flowery  meads  : 


60  GEORGE    SANDYS. 


Her  trees  yield  fruit  and  shade ;  with  liberal  breasts 

All  creatures  she  (their  common  mother)  feasts. 

Then  man  thy  image  hadst ;  in  dignity, 

In  knowledge,  and  in  beauty,  like  to  Thee  : 

Placed  in  a  heaven  on  earth  :  without  his  toil 

The  ever-flourishing  and  fruitful  soil 

Unpurchased  food  produced  ;  all  creatures  were 

His  subjects,  serving  more  for  love  than  fear. 

He  knew  no  lord  but  Thee.     But  when  he  fell 

From  his  obedience,  all  at  once  rebel, 

And  in  his  ruin  exercise  their  might : 

Concurring  elements  against  him  tight : 

Troops  of  unknown  diseases  ;  sorrow,  age, 

And  death,  assail  him  with  successive  rage. 

Hell  let  forth  all  her  furies  ;  none  so  great 

As  man  to  man.     Ambition,  pride,  deceit, 

Wrong  armed  with  power,  lust,  rapine,  slaughter  reigned , 

And  nattered  Vice  the  home  of  Virtue  gained. 

The  hills  beneath  the  swelling  waters  stood, 

And  all  the  globe  of  earth  was  but  one  flood  ; 

Yet  could  not  cleanse  their  guilt :  the  following  race 

Worse  than  their  fathers,  and  their  sons  more  base : 

Their  godlike  beauty  lost — sin's  wretched  thrall 

No  spark  of  their  Divine  original 

Left  unextinguished  ;  all  enveloped 

With  darkness  ;  in  their  bold  transgressions  dead ; 

When  Thou  didst  from  the  earth  a  light  display, 

Which  rendered  to  the  world  a  clearer  day, 

Whose  precepts  from  hell's  jaws  our  steps  withdraw, 

And  whose  example  was  a  living  law  ; 

Who  purged  us  with  his  blood,  the  way  prepared 

To  heaven,  and  those  long  chained-up  doors  unbarred. 

How  infinite  thy  mercy !  which  exceeds 

The  world  thou  mad'st,  as  well  as  our  misdeeds  : 

Which  greater  reverence  than  thy  justice  wins, 

And  still  augments  thy  honor  by  our  sins. 

Oh  !  who  hath  tasted  of  thy  clemency 

In  greater  measure  or  more  oft  than  I ! 


GEORGE    SANDYS.  81 


My  grateful  verse  thy  goodness  shall  display, 

0  Thou  who  went'st  along  in  all  my  way, 
To  where  the  morning  with  perfumed  wings 
From  the  high  mountains  of  Panchsea1  springs, 
To  that  new-found- out  world,  where  sober  night 
Takes  from  th'  antipodes  her  silent  flight, 

To  those  dark  seas  where  horrid  winter  reigns, 
And  binds  the  stubborn  floods  in  icy  chains, 
To  Libyan  wastes,  whose  thirst  no  showers  assuage, 
And  where  swoln  Nilus  cools  the  lion's  rage. 
Thy  wonders  in  the  deep  have  I  beheld  ; 
Yet  all  by  those  on  Judah's  hills  excelled  : 
There  where  the  virgin's  Son  his  doctrine  taught, 
His  miracles  and  our  redemption  wrought ! 
Where  I,  by  Thee  inspired,  his  praises  sung, 
And  on  his  sepulchre  my  offering  hung. 
Which  way  soe'er  I  turn  my  face  or  feet, 

1  see  thy  glory  and  thy  mercy  meet — 

Met  on  the  Thracian  shores,  when  in  the  strife 

Of  frantic  Simooms  Thou  preservedst  my  life ; 

So  when  Arabian  thieves  belayed  us  round, 

And  when  by  all  abandoned,  Thee  I  found. 

That  false  Sidonian  wolf,  whose  craft  put  on 

A  sheep's  soft  fleece,  and  me  Bellerophon 

To  ruin  by  his  cruel  letter  sent, 

Thou  didst  by  thy  protecting  hand  prevent. 

Thou  savedst  me  from  the  bloody  massacres 

Of  faithless  Indians,  from  their  treacherous  wars, 

From  raging  fevers,  from  the  sultry  breath 

Of  tainted  air,  which  cloyed  the  jaws  of  death  ; 

Preserved  from  swallowing  seas,  when  towering  waves 

Mixed  with  the  clouds  and  opened  their  deep  graves ; 

From  barbarous  pirates  ransomed,  by  those  taught, 

Successfully  with  Salian  Moors  we  fought. 

Then  broughtest  me  home  in  safety,  that  this  earth 

Might  bury  me,  which  fed  me  from  my  birth. 

1  A  fabulous  country  of  antiquity  whence  frankincense  was  said  to  be 
procured.     It  here  signifies  Arabia. 

6 


62  GEORGE    SANDYS. 


Blest  with  a  healthful  age,  a  quiet  mind, 
Content  with  little,  to  this  work  designed, 
Which  I  at  length  have  finished  by  thy  aid, 
And  now  my  vows  have  at  thy  altar  paid. 

HYMN. 
WRITTEN  AT  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  IN  JERUSALEM 

SAVIOUR  of  mankind,  Man,  Emmanuel ! 
Who  sinless  died  for  sin  ;  who  vanquished  hell ; 
The  first-fruits  of  the  grave  ;  whose  life  did  give 
Light  to  our  darkness ;  in  whose  death  we  live  : — 
Oh  !  strengthen  Thou  my  faith,  convert  my  will, 
That  mine  may  thine  obey ;  protect  me  still, 
So  that  the  latter  death  may  not  devour 
My  soul,  sealed  with  thy  seal.     So  in  the  hour 
When  Thou,  (whose  body  sanctified  this  tomb, 
Unjustly  judged,)  a  glorious  judge  shalt  come 
To  judge  the  world  with  justice,  by  that  sign 
I  may  be  known  and  entertained  for  thine. 

PSALM      XLVI. 

GOD  is  our  refuge,  our  strong  tower, 
Securing  by  his  mighty  power, 
When  dangers  threatened  to  devour. 

Thus  armed,  no  fears  shall  chill  our  blood, 
Though  earth  no  longer  steadfast  stood, 
And  shook  our  hills  into  the  flood. 

Although  the  troubled  ocean  rise, 

In  foaming  billows  to  the  skies, 

And  mountains  shake  with  horrid  noise  ; 

Clear  streams  purl  from  a  crystal  spring, 
Which  gladness  to  God's  city  bring, 
The  mansion  of  th'  Eternal  King. 


GEORGE    SANDYS.  63 

He  in  her  centre  takes  his  place  : 
What  foe  can  her  fair  towers  deface, 
Protected  by  his  early  grace  ? 

Tumultuary  nations  rose, 

And  armed  troops  our  walls  enclose, 

And  his  feared  voice  unnerved  our  foes. 

The  Lord  of  hosts  is  on  our  side  ; 

The  God  by  Jacob  magnified ; 

Our  strength  on  whom  we  have  relied. 

Come,  see  the  wonders  He  hath  wrought, 
Who  hath  to  desolation  brought 
Those  kingdoms  which  our  rum  sought. 

He  makes  destructive  war  surcease  ; 
The  earth,  deflowered  of  her  increase, 
Restores  with  universal  peace. 

He  breaks  their  bows,  unarms  their  quivers, 
The  bloody  spear  in  pieces  shivers, 
Their  chariots  to  the  flame  delivers. 

Forbear,  and  know  that  I  the  Lord 
Will  by  all  nations  be  adored — 
Praised  with  unanimous  accord. 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  on  our  side  ; 

The  God  by  Jacob  magnified ; 

Our  strength  on  whom  we  have  relied. 


PSALM     XLII. 

LORD  !  as  the  hart  embossed  with  heat 
Brays  after  the  cool  rivulet, 
So  sighs  my  soul  for  thee. 


64  GEORGE     SANDYS. 


My  soul  thirsts  for  the  living  God  : 
When  shall  I  enter  his  abode, 
And  there  his  beauty  see  ? 

Tears  are  my  food  both  night  and  day  ; 
While,  Where's  thy  God  ?  they  daily  say  ; 

My  soul  in  plaints  I  shed  ; 
When  I  remember,  how  in  throngs 
We  filled  thy  house  with  praise  and  songs ; 

How  I  their  dances  led. 

My  soul,  why  art  thou  so  depressed  ? 
Why,  0  !  thus  troubled  in  my  breast  ? 

With  grief  so  overthrown  ? 
With  constant  hope  on  God  await : 
I  yet  his  name  shall  celebrate, 

For  mercy  timely  shown. 

My  fainting  heart  within  me  pants : 
My  God,  consider  my  complaints  ; 

My  songs  shall  praise  thee  still, 
Even  from  the  vale  where  Jordan  flows  ; 
Where  Hermon  his  high  forehead  shows, 

From  Mitzar's  humble  hill. 

Deeps  unto  deeps  enraged  call, 
When  thy  dark  spouts  of  waters  fall, 

And  dreadful  tempest  raves  : 
For  all  thy  floods  upon  me  burst, 
And  billows  after  billows  thrust 

To  swallow  in  their  graves. 

But  yet  by  day  the  Lord  will  charge 
His  ready  mercy  to  enlarge 

My  soul,  surprised  with  cares ; 
He  gives  my  songs  their  argument : 
God  of  my  life,  I  will  present 

By  night  to  thee  my  prayers  : 


GEORGE    SANDYS. 


65 


And  say,  My  God,  my  Rock,  0  why 
Am  I  forgot,  and  mourning  die, 

By  foes  reduced  to  dust  ? 
Their  words,  like  weapons,  pierce  my  bones 
While*  still  they  echo  to  my  groans, 

Where  is  the  Lord  thy  trust  ? 

My  soul,  why  art  thou  so  depressed  ? 
0  why  so  troubled  in  my  breast  ? 

Sunk  underneath  thy  load  ! 
With  constant  hope  on  God  await : 
For  I  his  name  shall  celebrate, 

My  Saviour  and  my  God. 


PSALM      CXXXVll. 

As  on  Euphrates'  shady  banks  we  lay, 
And  there,  0  Sion,  to  thy  ashes  pay 
Our  funeral  tears,  our  silent  harps  unstrung, 
And  unregarded  on  thy  willows  hung, 
Lo !  they  who  had  thy  desolation  wrought, 
And  captive  Judah  unto  Babel  brought, 
Deride  the  tears  which  from  our  sorrows  spring  ; 
And  say,  in  scorn,  A  song  of  Sion  sing. 
Shall  we  profane  our  harps  at  their  command, 
Or  holy  hymns  sing  in  a  foreign  land  ? 
0  Solyma  !  thou  that  art  now  become 
A  heap  of  stones,  and  to  thyself  a  tomb, 
When  I  forget  thee,  my  dear  mother,  let 
My  fingers  their  melodious  skill  forget ; 
"\\  nen  I  a  joy  disjoined  from  thine  receive, 
Then  may  my  tongue  unto  my  palate  cleave. 
Remember  Edom,  Lord,  their  cruel  pride, 
Who  in  the  sack  of  wretched  Salem  cried, 
Down  with  their  buildings,  rase  them  to  the  ground, 
Nor  let  one  stone  be  on  another  found. 
6* 


66  GEORGE    SANDYS. 


Thou,  Babylon,  whose  towers  now  touch  the  sky, 
That  shortly  shalt  as  low  in  ruins  lie, 

Oh  !  happy  !  Oh  !  thrice  happy  they  who  shall 
With  equal  cruelty  revenge  our  fall  I 
That  dash  thy  children's  brains  against  the  stones, 
And  without  pity  hear  their  dying  groans. 


PSALM     XC. 

0  THOU,  the  Father  of  us  all, 
Our  refuge  from  th'  original ; 

That  wert  our  God  before 
The  airy  mountains  had  their  birth, 
Or  fabric  of  the  peopled  earth  ; 

And  art  for  evermore. 

But  frail  man  daily  dying,  must 
At  thy  command  return  to  dust ; 

Or  should  he  ages  last, 
Ten  thousand  years  are  in  thy  sight 
But  like  a  quadrant  of  the  night, 

Or  as  a  day  that's  past. 

We,  by  thy  torrent  swept  from  hence, 
An  empty  dream  which  mocks  the  sense, 

And  from  the  fancy  flies ; 
Such  as  the  beauty  of  the  rose, 
Which  in  the  dewy  morning  blows, 

Then  hangs  the  head  and  dies. 

Through  daily  anguish  we  expire  , 
Thy  anger  a  consuming  fire, 

To  our  offences  due. 
Our  sins  (although  by  night  concealed 
By  shame  and  fear)  are  all  revealed, 

And  naked  to  thy  view. 


GEORGE    SANDYS.  67 


Thus  in  thy  wrath  our  years  we  spend, 
And  like  a  sad  discourse  they  end, 

Nor  but  to  seventy  last ; 
Or  if  to  eighty  they  arrive, 
We  then  with  age  and  sickness  strive, 

Cut  off  with  winged  haste. 

Who  knows  the  terror  of  thy  wrath, 
Or  to  thy  dreadful  anger  hath 

Proportioned  his  due  fear  ? 
Teach  us  to  number  our  frail  days, 
That  we  our  hearts  to  Thee  may  raise, 

And  wisely  sin  forbear. 

Lord,  oh !  how  long  !  at  length  relent ! 
And  of  our  miseries  repent ; 

Thy  early  mercy  show, 
That  we  may  unknown  comforts  taste  ; 
For  those  long  days  in  sorrow  past 

As  long  of  joy  bestow. 

The  works  of  thy  accustomed  grace 
Show  to  thy  servants;  on  their  race 

Thy  cheerful  beams  reflect — 
Oh  !  let  on  us  thy  beauty  shine  ! 
Bless  our  attempts  with  aid  divine, 

And  by  thy  hand  direct. 


HANNAH     S     THANKSGIVING 
1    SAMUEL    II.     • 

GOD  hath  raised  my  head  on  high  : 
O  my  heart,  enlarge  my  joy ! 
God  hath  now  my  tongue  untied, 
To  retort  their  scorn  and  pride. 
In  thy  grace  I  will  rejoice ; 
Praise  Thee  while  I  have  a  voice, 


68  GEORGE    SANDYS. 


Who  so  holy  as  our  Lord  ! 
Who  but  He  to  be  adored  ! 
Who  such  wonders  can  effect ! 
Who  so  strongly  can  protect ! 
Be  no  longer  arrogant, 
Nor  in  folly  proudly  vaunt  : 
God  our  secret  thoughts  displays ; 
All  our  works  his  balance  weighs. 
Giants'  bows  his  forces  break  ; 
He  with  strength  invests  the  weak. 
Who  were  full,  now  serve  for  bread  ; 
Those  who  served,  enfranchised. 
Barren  wombs  with  children  flow  ; 
Fruitful  mothers  childless  grow. 
God  frail  man  of  life  deprives  ; 
Those  who  sleep  in  death,  revives : 
Leads  us  to  our  silent  tombs, 
Brings  us  from  those  horrid  rooms : 
Riches  sends ;  sends  poverty  : 
Casteth  down  and  lifts  on  high. 
He,  from  the  despised  dust, 
From  the  dunghill,  takes  the  just ; 
To  the  height  of  honor  brings  ; 
Plants  them  on  the  throne  of  kings. — 
God  earth's  mighty  pillars  made  ; 
He  the  world  upon  them  laid. 
He  his  servants'  feet  will  guide  : 
Wicked  souls,  who  swell  with  pride, 
Will  in  endless  darkness  chain, 
Since  all  human  strength  is  vain. 
He  shall  grind  his  enemies  ; 
Blast  with  lightning  from  the  skies  : 
Judge  the  habitable  earth, 
All  of  hiofh  and  humble  birth  : 

O 

Shall  with  strength  his  King  renown, 
And  his  Christ  with  glory  crown. 


GEORGE  SANDYS.  69 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  DAVID  OVER  SAUL 
AND  JONATHAN. 

2    SAMUEL    I. 

THY  beauty,  Israel,  is  fled, 

Sunk  to  the  dead  ; 
How  are  the  valiant  fallen  !  the  slain 

Thy  mountains  stain. 
Oh  !  let  it  not  in  Gath  be  known, 
Nor  in  the  streets  of  Ashkelon  ! 

Lest  that  sad  story  should  excite 

Their  dire  delight ! 
Lest  in  the  torrent  of  our  wo, 

Their  pleasure  flow : 
Lest  their  triumphant  daughters  ring 
Their  cymbals,  and  their  Paeans  sing. 

Yon  hills  of  Gilboa,  never  may 

You  offerings  pay ; 
No  morning  dew,  nor  fruitful  showers, 

Clothe  you  with  flowers  : 
Saul  and  his  arms  there  made  a  spoil, 
As  if  untouched  with  sacred  oil. 

The  bow  of  noble  Jonathan 

Great  battles  wan ; 
His  arrows  on  the  mighty  fed, 

With  slaughter  red. 
Saul  never  raised  his  arm  in  vain, 
His  sword  still  glutted  with  the  slain. 

How  lovely  !  0  how  pleasant !  when 

They  lived  with  men  ! 
Than  eagles  swifter  ;  stronger  far 

Than  lions  are : 

Whom  love  in  life  so  strongly  tied, 
The  stroke  of  death  could  not  divide. 


70  SIR    JOHN    BEAUMONT. 


Sad  Israel's  daughters,  weep  for  Saul ; 

Lament  his  fall, 
Who  fed  you  with  the  earth's  increase, 

And  crowned  with  peace  ; 
With  robes  of  Tyrian  purple  decked, 
And  gems  which  sparkling  light  reflect. 

How  are  thy  worthies  by  the  sword 

Of  war  devoured  ! 
O  Jonathan !  the  better  part 

Of  my  torn  heart  ! 

The  savage  rocks  have  drunk  thy  blood 
My  brother  !  0  how  kind  !  how  good  ! 

Thy  love  was  great ;  0  never  more 

To  man,  man  bore  ! 
No  woman  when  most  passionate, 

Loved  at  that  rate  ! 
How  are  the  mighty  fallen  in  flght  I 
They,  and  their  glory,  set  in  night ! 


SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT. 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT,  elder  brother  of  Francis  Boaumont,  the  dra- 
matist, was  the  son  of  Francis  Beaumont,  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
Court  of  Common  Pleas  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  he  was  born 
in  1584,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  Besides  an  historical  poem 
styled  "Bosworth  Field,"  he  was  the  author  of  "  The  Crown  of 
Thorns,"  and  other  poems  on  sacred  subjects,  which,  though  Hub 
known,  possess  great  merit.  He  was  created  a  baronet  in  1626,  and 
died  in  1628. 

A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  WORLD,  A  PILGRIM,   AND   VIRTUE. 
PILGRIM. 

WHAT  darkness  clouds  my  senses  ?     Hath  the  day 
Forgot  his  season,  and  the  sun  his  way  ? 


SIR    JOHN    BEACMOXT.  71 


Doth  God  withdraw  his  all-sustaining  might, 
And  works  no  more  with  his  fair  creature — light, 
While  heaven  and  earth  for  such,  alas !  complain, 
And  turn  to  rude  unformed  heaps  again  ? 
My  paces  with  entangling  briers  are  bound, 
And  all  this  forest  in  deep  silence  drowned  ; 
Here  must  my  labor  and  my  journey  cease, 
By  which,  in  vain,  I  sought  for  rest  and  peace  , 
But  now  perceive  that  man's  unquiet  mind 
In  all  his  ways  can  only  darkness  find. 
Here  must  I  starve  and  die,  unless  some  light 
Point  out  the  passage  from  this  dismal  night. 

WORLD. 

Distressed  Pilgrim,  let  not  causeless  fear 

Depress  thy  hopes,  for  thou  hast  comfort  near, 

Which  thy  dull  heart  with  splendor  shall  inspire, 

And  guide  thee  to  thy  period  of  desire. 

Clear  up  thy  brows,  and  raise  thy  fainting  eyes  ; 

See  how  my  glittering  palace  open  lies 

For  weary  passengers,  whose  desperate  case 

I  pity,  and  provide  a  resting-place. 

PILGRIM. 

Oh  thou !  whose  speeches  sound,  whose  beauties  shine, 
Xot  like  a  creature,  but  some  power  divine, 
Teach  me  thy  style,  thy  worth  and  state  declare, 
Whose  glories  in  this  desert  hidden  are. 

WORLD. 

I  am  thine  end  ;  Felicity  my  name  ; 
The  best  of  wishes,  pleasures,  riches,  fame, 
Are  humble  vassals,  which  my  throne  attend, 
And  make  you  mortals  happy  when  I  send  : 
In  my  left  hand  delicious  fruits  I  hold, 
To  feed  them  who  with  mirth  and  ease  grow  old ; 
Afraid  to  lose  the  fleeting  days  and  oughts, 
They  seize  on  time,  and  spend  it  in  delights. 


72  SIR    JOHN    BEAUMONT. 


My  right  hand  with  triumphant  crowns  is  stored, 
Which  all  the  kings  of  former  times  adored  : 
These  gifts  are  thine :  then  enter  where  no  strife, 
No  grief,  no  pain,  shall  interrupt  thy  life. 

VIRTUE. 

Stay,  hasty  wretch,  here  deadly  serpents  swell, 
And  thy  next  step  is  on  the  brink  of  hell : 
Wouldst  thou,  poor  weary  man,  thy  limbs  repose  ? 
Behold  my  house,  where  true  contentment  grows ; 
Not  like  the  baits  which  this  seducer  gives, 
Whose  bliss  a  day,  whose  torment  ever  lives. 

WORLD. 

Regard  not  these  vain  speeches,  let  them  go: 
This  is  a  poor  worm,  my  contemned  foe, 
Bold,  threadbare  Virtue,  who  dare  promise  more 
From  empty  bags,  than  I  from  all  my  store ; 
Whose  counsels  make  men  draw  unquiet  breath, 
Expecting  to  be  happy  after  death. 

VIRTUE. 

Canst  thou  now  make,  or  hast  thou  ever  made, 

Thy  servants  happy  in  those  things  that  fade  ? 

Hear  this  my  challenge :  One  example  bring 

Of  such  perfection  ;  let  him  be  the  king 

Of  all  the  world,  fearing  no  outward  check, 

And  finding  others  by  his  voice  or  beck  ; 

Yet  shall  this  man  at  every  moment  find 

More  gall  than  honey  in  his  restless  mind. 

No,  monster,  since  my  words  have  struck  thee  dumb, 

Behold  this  garland,  whence  such  virtues  come, 

Such  glories  shine,  such  piercing  beams  are  thrown 

As  make  thee  blind,  -and  turn  thee  to  a  stone. 

And  thou,  whose  wandering  feet  were  running  down 

The  infernal  steepness,  look  upon  this  crown  : 


PHIXEAS    FLETCHER.  73 


Within  these  folds  He  hidden  no  deceits, 
No  golden  lures  on  which  perdition  waits ; 
But  when  thine  eyes  the  prickly  thorns  have  past, 
See  in  the  circle  boundless  joys  at  last. 

PILGRIM. 

These  things  are  now  most  clear,  thee  I  embrace : 
Immortal  wreath,  let  worldlings  count  thee  base  ; 
Choice  is  thy  matter,  glorious  is  thy  shape, 
Fit  crown  for  them  who  tempting  dangers  'scape. 


PHINEAS  FLETCHER. 

PHINEAS  FLETCHER,  a  brother  of  Giles  Fletcher,  was  born  in  1584. 
He  was  elected  from  Eton  to  King's  College,  and  Sir  Henry  WiJ- 
loughby  gave  him  the  living  of  Hilgay,  in  Norfolk,  which  he  held 
twenty-nine  years ;  when  it  is  supposed  he  died,  1650.  The  princi- 
pal poem  of  this  author  is  "  Ths  Purple  Island,"  in  twelve  cantos, 
containing  an  allegorical  description  both  of  the  body  and  soul  of  man. 
It  has  been  truly  said,  that  no  degree  of  skill  in  the  poet  could  render 
this  subject  agreeable,  as  a  whole,  to  the  modern  reader.  It  abounds, 
however,  with  picturesque  passages,  and  touches  of  natural  and 
pleasing  sentiment. 

INVOCATION. 
FROM  CANTO  XL  OF  THE  PURPLE  ISLAND. 

THE  early  morn  lets  out  the  peeping  day, 

And  strewed  his  paths  with  golden  marigolds : 
The  moon  grows  Avan,  and  stars  fly  all  away, 
Whom  Lucifer  locks  up  in  wonted  folds, 

Till  light  is  quenched  and  heaven  in  seas  hath  flung- 
The  headlong  day : — to  the  hill  the  shepherds  throng, 
And  Thirsil  now  began  to  end  his  task  and  song. 


74  PHINEAS    FLETCHER. 


Who  now,  alas  !  shall  teach  my  humble  vein, 

That  never  yet  durst  peep  from  covert  gLide ; 
But  softly  learnt  for  fear  to  sigh  and  plain, 
And  vent  her  griefs  to  silent  myrtle's  shade  ? 
Who  now  shall  teach  to  change  my  oaten  quill 
For  trumpet  'larms,  or  humble  verses  fill 
With  graceful  majesty  and  lofty  rising  skill  ? 

Ah,  thou  dread  Spirit !  shed  thy  holy  fire, 

Thy  holy  flame  into  my  frozen  heart ; 
Teach  thou  my  creeping  measures  to  aspire 
And  swell  in  bigger  notes,  and  higher  art ; 
Teach  my  low  muse  thy  fierce  alarms  to  ring, 
And  raise  my  soft  strain  to  high  thundering : 
Tune  thou  my  lofty  song ;  thy  battles  must  I  sing. 

Such  as  thou  wert  within  the  sacred  breast 

Of  that  thrice  famous  poet  shepherd-king  ; 
And  taught'st  his  heart  to  frame  his  cantos  best, 
Of  all  that  e'er  thy  glorious  works  did  sing ; 
Or  as  those  holy  fishers  once  amongs, 
Thou  flamedst  bright  with  sparkling  parted  tongues, 
And  brought'st  down  heaven  to  'earth  in  those  all- 
conquering  songs. 

AN  APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  FALLEN  EMPIRES  OF  THE  WORLD, 

FOND  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness, 

And  here  long  seeks  what  here  is  never  found ! 
For  all  our  good  we  hold  from  heaven  by  lease, 
With  many  forfeits  and  conditions  bound ; 
Nor  can  we  pay  the  fine  and  rentage  due : 
Though  now  bui  writ,  and  sealed,  and  given  anew, 
Yet  daily  we  it  break,  then  daily  must  renew. 

Why  shouldst  thou  here  look  for  perpetual  good, 
At  every  loss  'gainst  heaven's  face  repining  ? 

Do  but  behold  where  glorious  cities  stood, 
With  gilded  tops  and  silver  turrets  shining ; 


PHINEAS    FLETCHER.  75 

Tliere  now  the  hart,  fearless  of  greyhound,  feeds, 
And  loving  pelican  in  safety  breeds  : 
There  screeching  satyrs  fill  the  people's  empty  stedes.1 

Where  is  the  Assyrian  lion's  golden  hide, 

That  all  the  east  once  grasped  in  lordly  paw  ? 
Where  that  great  Persian  bear,  whose  swelling  pride 
The  lion's  self  tore  out  with  rav'nous  jaw  ? 
Or  he  who  'twixt  a  lion  and  a  pard, 
Through  all  the  world  with  nimble  pinions  fared, 
And  to  his  greedy  whelps  his  conquered  kingdoms  shared  ? 

Hardly  the  place  of  such  antiquity, 

Or  note  of  those  great  monarchies  we  find : 
Only  a  fading  verbal  memory, 

And  empty  name  in  writ  is  left  behind : 
But  when  this  second  life  and  glory  fades, 
And  sinks  at  length  in  time's  obscurer  shades, 
A  second  fall  succeeds,  and  double  death  invades. 

That  monstrous  beast,  which  nursed  in  Tiber's  fen, 

Did  all  the  world  with  hideous  shape  affray ; 
That  filled  with  costly  spoil  his  gaping  den, 
And  trod  down  all  the  rest  to  dust  and  clay ; 
His  battering  horns,  pulled  out  by  civil  hinds, 
And  iron  teeth  lie  scattered  on  the  sands ; 
Backed,  bridled  by  a  monk,  with  seven  heads  yoked  stands. 

And  that  black  vulture,  which  with  dreadful  wring 
O'ershadows  half  the  earth,  whose  dismal  sight 
Frightened  the  muses  from  their  native  spring, 
Already  stoops,  and  flags  with  weary  flight : 
Who  then  shall  look  for  happiness  beneath  ? 
Where  each  new  day  proclaims,  chance,  change,  and 

death, 
And  life  itself 's  as  fleet  as  is  the  air  we  breathe. 


Places. 


76  PHINEAS    FLETCHER. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    THE    CHURCH. 

WITH  that  a  thundering  noise  seemed  shake  the  sky, 

As  when  with  iron  wheels  through  stony  plain 
A  thousand  chariots  to  the  battle  fly ; 

Or  when  with  boisterous  rage  the  swelling  main, 
Puffed  up  by  mighty  winds,  does  hoarsely  roar, 
And  breaking  with  his  waves  the  trembling  shore, 
His  sandy  girdle  scorns,  and  breaks  earth's  rampart  door. 

And  straight  an  angel,  full  of  heavenly  might, 

(Three  several  crowns  circled  his  royal  head,) 
From  northern  coast  heaving  his  blazing  light, 

Through  all  the  earth  his  glorious  beams  dispread, 
And  open  lays  the  beast  and  Dragon's  shame ; 
For  to  this  end  the  Almighty  did  him  frame, 
And  therefore  from  supplanting  gave  his  ominous  name. 

A  silver  trumpet  oft  he  loudly  blew, 

Frighting  the  guilty  earth  with  thundering  knell ; 
And  oft  proclaimed,  as  round  the  world  he  flew, 
"  Babel,  great  Babel,  lies  as  low  as  hell. 
Let  every  angel  loud  his  trumpet  sound, 
Her  heaven-exalted  towers  in  dust  are  drowned ; 
Babel,  proud  Babel's  fallen,  and  lies  as  low  as  ground !" 

The  broken  heavens  dispart  with  fearful  noise, 

And  from  the  breach  outshoots  a  sudden  light ; 
Straight  shrilling  trumpets,  with  loud-sounding  voice, 
Give  echoing  summons  to  new  bloody  fight : 
Well  knew  the  Dragon  that  all-quelling  blast, 
And  soon  perceived  that  day  must  be  his  last, 
Which  struck  his  frightened  heart  and  all  his  troops  aghast 

Yet  full  of  malice  and  of  stubborn  pride, 

Though  oft  had  strove,  and  had  been  foiled  as  oft, 

Boldly  his  death  and  certain  fate  defied ; 
And,  mounted  on  his  flaggy  sails  aloft, 


PHINEAS    FLETCHER.  77 


With  boundless  spite  he  longed  to  try  again 
A  second  loss,  and  new  death ; — glad  and  fain 
To  show  his  poisonous  hate,  though  ever  showed  hi  vain. 

So  up  he  arose  upon  his  stretched  sails, 

Fearless  expecting  his  approaching  death ; 
So  up  he  arose,  that  the  air  starts  and  fails, 
And  overpressed,  sinks  his  load  beneath ; 
So  up  he  arose,  as  doth  a  thunder-cloud, 
Which  all  the  earth  with  shadows  black  doth  shroud ; 
So  up  he  arose,  and  through  the  weary  air  he  rowed. 

Xow  his  Almighty  foe  far  off  he  spies, 

Whose  sun-like  arms  dazzled  the  eclipsed  day, 
Confounding  with  their  beams  less  glittering  skies, 
Firing  the  air  with  more  than  heavenly  ray, 

Like  thousand  suns  in  one : — such  is  their  light, 
A  subject  only  for  immortal  sprite, 
Which  never  can  be  seen  but  by  immortal  sight. 

His  threatening  eyes  shine  like  that  dreadful  flame 

With  which  the  Thunderer  arms  his  angry  hand : 
Himself  had  fairly  wrote  his  wondrous  name, 

Which  neither  earth  nor  heaven  could  understand : 
A  hundred  crowns,  like  towers,  be  set  around 
His  conquering  head ;  well  may  they  there  abound, 
When  all  his  limbs  and  troops  with  gold  are  richly  crowned. 

His  armor  all  was  dyed  in  purple  blood, 

(In  purple  blood  of  thousand  rebel  kings,) 
In  vain  their  stubborn  powers  his  aim  withstood ; 
Their  proud  necks  chained  he  now  in  triumph  brings, 
And  breaks  their  spears  and  cracks  their  traitor-swords  ; 
Upon  whose  arms  and  thigh  in  golden  words 
Was  fairly  writ,  "  The  King  of  longs,  and  Lord  of  lords." 

His  snow-white  steed  was  born  of  heavenly  kind, 
Begot  by  Boreas  on  the  Thracian  hills, 
7* 


78  PH1NEAS    FLETCHER. 


More  strong  and  speedy  than  his  parent  wind, 
And  (which  his  foes  with  fear  and  horror  fills) 
Out  from  his  mouth  a  two-edged  sword  he  darts, 
Whose  sharpest  steel  the  bone  and  marrow  parts, 

And  with  his  keenest  point  unbreast  the  naked  hearts. 

The  Dragon,  wounded  with  his  flaming  brand, 

They  take,  and  in  strong  bonds  and  fetters  tie : 
Short  was  the  fight,  nor  could  he  long  withstand 
Him  whose  appearance  is  his  victory. 
So  now  he's  bound  in  adamantine  chain : 
He  storms,  he  roars,  he  yells  for  high  disdain ; 
His  net  is  broke,  the  fowl  go  free,  the  fowler's  ta'en. 

Soon  at  this  sight  the  knights  revive  again, 

As  fresh  as  when  the  flowers  from  winter's  tomb, 
When  now  the  sun  brings  back  his  nearest  train, 
Peep  out  again  from  their  fresh  mother's  womb : 
The  primrose,  lighted  new,  her  flame  displays, 
And  frights  the  neighbor  hedge  with  fiery  rays ! 
And  all  the  world  renew  their  mirth  and  sportive  plays. 

The  prince,  who  saw  his  long  imprisonment 

Now  end  in  never-ending  liberty, 
To  meet  the  victor  from  his  castle  went, 
And  falling  down,  clasping  his  royal  knee. 
Pours  out  deserved  thanks  in  grateful  praise : 
But  him  the  heavenly  Saviour  soon  doth  raise- 
And  bids  him  spend  in  joy  his  never-ending  days. 


WILLIAM    DRUMMOND.  79 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 

DRUMMOND  of  Hawthornden,  the  first  Scottish  poet  who  wrote  well 
in  English,  was  born  in  1585.  He  was  bred  at  Edinburgh,  and  studied 
the  civil  law  at  Bourges ;  but  on  the  death  of  his  father  he  forsook  that 
pursuit,  and  retired  to  his  patrimony,  there  to  enjoy  a  literary  life. 
During  the  civil  wars  he  was  compelled  by  the  ruling  party  to  furnish 
his  quota  of  men,  to  fight  against  the  king,  whom  he  loved  ;  and  when 
the  monarch  was  put  to  death  by  the  conquering  faction,  the  spirit  of 
Drummond  was  so  broken,  that  it  brought  him  to  the  grave.  This 
happened  in  1649.  As  a  poet,  Drummond  has  much  sweetness  and 
classic  elegance,  but  little  fancy  or  vigor.  His  sonnets  are,  perhaps, 
the  best  of  his  performances.  These  have  been  pronounced  by  the  best 
critics  as  some  of  the  most  finished  specimens  of  this  kind  of  compo- 
sition. 

AN    HYMN    OF    TRUE    HAPPINESS. 

AMIDST  the  azure  clear 

Of  Jordan's  sacred  streams — 
Jordan,  of  Lebanon  the  offspring  dear — 
When  zephyrs  flowers  unclose, 

And  sun  shine  with  new  beams, 
With  grave  and  stately  grace  a  nymph  arose. 

Upon  her  head  she  wore 

Of  amaranths  a  crown  ; 

Her  left  hand  palms,  her  right  a  torch  did  bear ; 
Unveiled  skin's  whiteness  lay, 

Gold  hairs  in  curls  hung  down, 
Eyes  sparkled  joy,  more  bright  than  star  of  day. 

The  flood  a  throne  her  reared 

Of  waves,  most  like  that  heaven 
Where  beaming  stars  in  glory  turn  unsphered  ; 


80  WILLIAM    DRUMMOND. 


The  air  stood  calm  and  clear, 

No  sigh  by  winds  was  given, 
Birds  left  to  sing,  herds  feed,  her  voice  to  hear. 

"  World- wandering,  sorry  wights, 

Whom  nothing  can  content 
Within  these  varying  lists  of  days  and  nights, 
Whose  life  ere  known  amiss, 

In  glittering  griefs  is  spent, 
Come  learn,"  said  she,  "  what  is  your  choicest  bliss 

"  From  toil  and  pressing  cares 

How  ye  may  respite  find  ; 
A  sanctuary  from  soul-thralling  snares, 
A  port,  to  harbor  sure, 

In  spite  of  waves  and  wind, 
Which  shall,  when  time's  swift  glass  is  run,  endure. 

"  Not  happy  is  that  life, 

Which  you  as  happy  hold  ; 
No,  but  a  sea  of  fears,  a  field  of  strife, 
Charged  on  a  throne  to  sit 

With  diadems  of  gold, 
Preserved  by  force,  and  still  observed  by  wit. 

"  Huge  treasures  to  enjoy, 

Of  all  her  gems  spoil  Inde, 
And  Sere's  silk  in  garments  t'  employ, 
Deliciously  to  feed, 

The  Phoenix'  plume  to  find, 
To  rest  upon  or  deck  your  purple  bed. 

"  Frail  beauty  to  abuse, 

And  wanton  Sybarites, 
On  past  or  present  touch  of  sense  to  muse, 
Never  to  hear  of  noise, 

But  what  the  ear  delights, 
Sweet  music's  charms,  or  charming  flatterer's  voice. 


WILLIAM    DRUMMONO.  81 

"  Nor  can  it  bliss  you  bring, 

Hid  nature's  depths  to  know, 

Why  matter  changeth,  whence  each  form  doth  spring : 
Nor  that  your  fame  should  range, 

And  after  worlds  it  blow 
From  Tanais  to  Nile,  from  Nile  to  Gange. 

"  All  these  have  not  the  power 

To  free  the  mind  from  fears, 
Nor  hideous  horror  can  allay  one  hour, 
When  death  in  stealth  doth  glance, 

In  sickness  lurks,  or  years, 
And  wakes  the  soul  from  out  her  mortal  trance. 

"No  ;  but  blest  life  is  this,— 

With  chaste  and  pure  desire, 
To  turn  unto  the  load-star  of  all  bliss  ; 
On  God  the  mind  to  rest, 

Burnt  up  by  sacred  fire, 
Possessing  Him,  to  be  by  Him  possessed  : 

"  When  to  the  balmy  east, 

Sun  doth  his  light  impart, 
Or  when  he  diveth  in  the  lowly  west, 
And  ravisheth  the  day, 

With  spotless  hand  and  heart, 
Him  cheerfully  to  praise,  and  to  Hun  pray. 

"  Take  heed  each  action  to, 

As  ever  in  his  sight ; 
More  fearing  doing  ill,  or  passive  wo ; 
Not  to  seem  other  thing, 

Than  what  ye  are  aright ; 
Never  to  do  what  may  repentance  bring. 

"  Not  to  be  blown  with  pride, 

Nor  moved  at  glory's  breath, 
Which  shadow-like  on  wings  of  time  doth  glide , 


82  WILLIAM    DRUMMOND. 

So  malice  to  disarm, 

And  conquer  hasty  wrath, 
As  to  do  good  to  those  that  work  you  harm. 

"  To  hatch  no  base  desires, 

Or  gold,  or  land  to  gain, 

Well  pleased  with  that  which  virtue  fair  acquires  ; 
To  have  the  wit  and  will, 

Consorting  in  one  strain, 
Than  what  is  good,  to  have  no  higher  skill. 

"  Never  on  neighbor's  goods, 

With  cockatrice's  eye, 

To  look,  nor  make  another's  heaven  your  hell ; 
Nor  to  be  beauty's  thrall, 

All  fruitless  love  to  fly, 
Yet  loving  still,  a  love  transcendent  all. 

"  A  love,  which  while  it  burns 

The  soul  with  fairest  beams, 
To  that  increated  sun,  the  soul,  it  turns, 
And  makes  such  beauty  prove, 

That,  if  sense  saw  her  gleams, 
All  lookers  on  would  pine  and  die  for  love. 

"  Who  such  a  life  doth  live, 

You  happy  e'en  may  call, 
Ere  ruthless  death  a  wished  end  may  give, 
And  after  then  when  given, 

More  happy  by  his  fall, 
For  human's  earth,  enjoying  angel's  heaven. 

"  Swift  is  your  mortal  race, 

And  glassy  is  the  field  ; 
Vast  are  desires  not  limited  by  grace : 
Life  a  weak  taper  is  ; 

Then  while  it  light  doth  yield, 
Leave  flying  joys,  embrace  this  lasting  bliss/* 


WILLIAM    DRUMMOND.  83 


This  when  the  nymph  had  said. 

She  dived  within  the  flood. 
Whose  face  with  smiling  curls  long  after  staid  ; 
Then  sighs  did  zephyrs  press, 

Birds  sang  from  every  wood, 
And  echoes  rang,  This  was  true  happiness. 


\0     TRUST     IN     TIME. 

LOOK  how  the  flower,  which  lingeringly  doth  fade, 
The  morning's  darling  late,  the  summer's  queen, 
Spoiled  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and  green, 

As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head  : 

Just  so,  the  pleasures  of  my  life,  being  dead, 
Or  in  then*  contraries  but  only  seen, 

With  swifter  speed  declines  than  erst  it  spread, 

And,  blasted,  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath  been. 

Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 
Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 

Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what's  yet  left  of  life's  wasting  day : 

The  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 

And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born. 


RETIREMENT. 

THRICE  happy  he,  who  by  some  shady  grove, 

Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  doth  live  his  own, 

Though  solitary,  who  is  not  alone, 
But  doth  converse  with  that  eternal  love. 

Oh  !  how  more  sweet  is  bird's  harmonious  moan, 
Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widowed  dove, 

Than  those  smooth  whisperings  near  a  prince's  throne, 
Which  good  make  doubtful,  do  the  evil  approve  ! 
Oh !  how  more  sweet  is  zephyr's  wholesome  breath, 

And  sighs  embalmed  which  new-born  flowers  unfold, 


84  WILLIAM    DRUMMOND. 


Than  that  applause  vain  honor  doth  bequeath ! 

How  sweet  are  streams,  to  poison  drank  in  gold ! 
The  world  is  full  of  horrors,  troubles,  slights  ; 
Woods'  harmless  shades  have  only  true  delights. 

THE     NIGHTINGALE. 

SWEET  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past,  or  coming,  void  of  care, 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are  ; 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers, 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers, 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare. 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs 
(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites,  and  wrongs, 
And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ? 

Sweet  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 

To  airs  of  spheres  ;  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

APPLES     OF     SODOM. 

As  are  those  apples,  pleasant  to  the  eye, 

But  full  of  smoke  within,  which  used  to  grow 
Near  that  strange  lake,  where  God  poured  from  the  sky 

Huge  showers  of  flame,  worse  flame  to  overthrow : 
Such  are  their  works,  that  with  a  glaring  show 

Of  humble  holiness,  in  virtue's  dye 
Would  color  mischief,  while  within  they  glow 

With  coals  of  sin,  though  none  the  smoke  descry. 
Bad  is  that  angel  that  erst  fell  from  heaven, 

But  not  so  bad  as  he,  nor  in  worse  case, 

Who  hides  a  traitorous  mind  with  smiling  face, 
And  with  a  dove's  white  feathers  clothes  a  raven : 

Each  sin  some  color  has  it  to  adorn ; 

Hypocrisy,  Almighty  God  doth  scorn. 


WILLIAM    DRUMMOND.  85 


MADRIGAL. 

THIS  life,  which  seems  so  far, 

Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 

By  sporting  children's  breath, 
Who  chase  it  everywhere, 

And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath. 
And  though  it  sometimes  seems  of  its  own  might, 

Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fixed  there, 
And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 
That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear ; 
For,  when  'tis  most  admired  in  a  thought, 
Because  it  erst  was  naught,  it  turns  to  naught. 


THE     CRUCIFIXION. 

IF  in  the  east,  when  you  do  there  behold 

Forth  from  his  crystal  bed  the  sun  to  rise, 
With  rosy  robes,  and  crowns  of  flaming  gold ; 

If,  gazing  on  that  empress  of  the  skies, 
That  takes  so  many  forms,  and  those  fair  brands 

Which  blaze  in  heaven's  high  vault,  night's  watchful 

eyes; 
If,  seeing  how  the  sea's  tumultuous  bands 

Of  bellowing  billows  have  their  course  confined, 
How  unsustained  the  earth  still  steadfast  stands ; 
Poor  mortal  wights,  you  e'er  formed  in  your  mind 

A  thought  that  some  great  king  did  sit  above, 
Who  had  such  laws  and  rites  to  them  assigned  : 

A  king  who  fixed  the  poles,  made  spheres  to  move, 
All  wisdom,  pureness,  excellency,  might, 

All  goodness,  greatness,  justice,  beauty,  love  ; 
With  fear  and  wonder  hither  turn  your  sight, 

See,  see,  alas  !  Him  now,  not  in  that  state 
Thought  could  forecast  Him  into  reason's  light. 
8 


86  WILLIAM    DRUMMOND. 


Now  eyes  with  tears,  now  hearts  with  grief  make  great, 
Bemoan  this  cruel  death  and  ruthful  case, 

If  ever  plaints  just  wo  could  aggravate  : 
From  sin  and  hell  to  save  us  human  race, 

See  this  great  King  nailed  to  an  abject  tree, 
An  object  of  reproach  and  sad  disgrace, 

O  unheard  pity  !  love  in  strange  degree  ! 
He  his  own  life  doth  give,  his  blood  doth  shed, 

For  wormlings  base,  such  worthiness  to  see. 
Poor  wights  !  behold  his  visage,  pale  as  lead, 

His  head  bowed  to  his  breast,  locks  sadly  rent, 
Like  a  cropped  rose  that  languishing  doth  fade. 

Weak  nature,  weep  !  astonished  world,  lament ! 
Lament,  you  winds  !  yon  heaven,  that  all  contains, 

And  thou,  my  soul,  let  naught  thy  griefs  relent ! 
Those  hands,  those  sacred  hands,  which  held  the  reins 

Of  this  great  all,  and  kept  from  mutual  wars 
The  elements,  bare  rent  for  thee  their  veins  : 

Those  feet  which  once  must  tread  on  golden  stars, 
For  thee  with  nails  would  be  pierced  through  and  torn ; 

For  thee  heaven's  king  from  heaven's  self  debars : 
This  great  heart-quaking  dolor  wail  and  mourn, 

Ye  that  long  since  Him  saw  by  might  of  faith, 
Ye  now  that  are,  and  ye  yet  to  be  born. 

Not  to  behold  his  great  Creator's  death, 
The  sun  from  sinful  eyes  hath  veiled  his  light, 

And  faintly  journeys  up  heaven's  sapphire  path  ; 
And  cutting  from  her  brows  her  tresses  bright, 

The  moon  doth  keep  her  Lord's  sad  obsequies, 
Impearling  with  her  tears  her  robe  of  night ; 

All  staggering  and  lazy  lour  the  skies  ; 
The  earth  and  elemental  stages  quake  ; 

The  long-since  dead  from  bursted  graves  arise. 
And  can  tilings  wanting  sense  yet  sorrow  take, 

And  bear  a  part  with  Him  who  all  them  wrought, 
And  man  (though  bora  with  cries)  shall  pity  lack  ? 

Think  what  had  been  your  state,  had  he  not  brought 
To  these  sharp  pangs  Himself,  and  prized  so  high 


WILLIAM    DRUMMOND.  87 


Your  souls,  that  with  his  life  them  life  He  bought ! 
What  woes  do  you  attend,  if  still  ye  lie 

Plunged  in  your  wonted  follies,  wretched  bro*od ! 
Shall  for  your  sake  again  God  ever  die  ? 

Oh  !  leaye  deluding  shows,  embrace  true  good  ; 
He  on  you  calls,  forego  sin's  shameful  trade  ; 

With  prayers  now  seek  ye  heaven,  and  not  with  blood, 
Let  not  the  lambs  more  from  their  dams  be  had, 

Nor  altars  blush  for  sin  ;  live  every  thing  ! 
That  long-time  longed-for  sacrifice  is  made. 

All  that  is  from  you  craved  by  this  great  King, 
Is  to  believe  :  a  pure  heart  incense  is. 

What  gift,  alas  !  can  we  Him  meaner  bring  ? 
Haste,  sin-sick  souls  !  this  season  do  not  miss, 
Now  while  remorseless  time  doth  grant  you  space, 

And  God  invites  you  to  your  only  bliss  : 
He  who  you  calls,  will  not  deny  you  grace, 

But  low  deep  bury  faults,  so  ye  repent ; 
His  arms,  lo !  stretched  are,  you  to  embrace. 

When  days  are  done,  and  life's  small  spark  is  spent, 
So  you  accept  what  freely  here  is  given, 

Like  brood  of  angels  deathless,  all  content, 
Ye  shall  forever  live  with  Him  in  heaven. 

THE     ASCENSION. 

BRIGHT  portals  of  the  sky, 

Embossed  with  sparkling  stars ; 
Doors  of  eternity, 

With  diamantine  bars, 
Your  arras  rich  uphold  : 

Loose  all  your  bolts  and  springs, 
Ope  wide  your  leaves  of  gold, 

That  in  your  roofs  may  come  the  King  of  kings, 

Scarfed  in  a  rosy  cloud, 

He  doth  ascend  the  air, 
Straight  doth  the  moon  Him  shroud 

With  her  resplendent  hair ; 


88  WILLIAM    DRUMMOND, 


The  next  encry stalled  light 

Submits  to  Him  its  beams, 
And  He  doth  trace  the  height 

Of  that  fair  lamp  which  flames  of  beauty  streams. 

He  towers  those  golden  bounds 

He  did  to  sun  bequeath  ; 
The  higher  wandering  rounds 

Are  found  his  feet  beneath : 
The  milky- way  comes  near, 

Heaven's  axle  seems  to  bend 
Above  each  turning  sphere, 

That  robed  in  glory,  heaven's  King  may  ascend. 

0  Well-spring  of  this  All ! 

Thy  Father's  image  vive, 
Word,  that  from  naught  did  call 

What  is,  doth  reason  live  ! 
The  soul's  eternal  food, 

Earth's  joy,  delight  of  heaven, 
All  truth,  love,  beauty,  good, 

To  Thee,  to  Thee,  be  praises  ever  given. 

What  was  dismarshalled  late, 

To  this  thy  noble  frame, 
And  last  the  prime  estate 

Hath  reobtained  the  same, 
Is  now  more  perfect  seen ; 

Streams  which  diverted  were 
(And  troubled,  stayed  unclean) 

From  their  first  source  by  Thee  home-turned  are. 

By  Thee  that  blemish  old 

Of  Eden's  leprous  prince, 
Which  on  his  race  took  hold, 

And  him  exile  from  thence, 
Now  put  away  is  far ; 

With  sword  in  ireful  guise, 
No  cherub  more  shall  bar 

Poor  man  the  entrance  into  paradise. 


WILLIAM    DRUMMOND.  89 


Now  each  ethereal  gate, 

To  Him  hath  opened  been  ; 
And  glory's  King  in  state 

His  palace  enters  in  : 
Now  come  is  this  High  priest 

To  the  most  holy  place, 
Not  without  blood  addressed, 

With  glory  heaven,  the  earth  to  crown  with  grace. 

Stars  which  all  eyes  were  late. 

And  did  with  wonder  burn 
His  name  to  celebrate, 

In  naming  tongues  their  turn  : 
Their  orby  crystals  move 

More  active  than  before, 
And  entheate1  from  above, 

Their  sovereign  Prince  laud,  glorify,  adore. 

The  choirs  of  happy  souls 

Waked  with  that  music  sweet, 
Whose  descant  care  controls, 

Their  Lord  in  triumph  meet : 
The  spotless  spirits  of  light, 

His  trophies  do  extol, 
And  arched  in  squadrons  bright, 

Greet  their  great  Victor  in  his  capitol. 

0  glory  of  the  heaven  ! 

0  sole  delight  of  earth  ! 
To  Thee  all  power  be  given, 

God's  uncreated  birth  ; 
Of  mankind  lover  true, 

Endurer  of  his  wrong, 
Who  dost  the  world  renew, 

Still  be  Thou  our  salvation  and  our  song, 

From  top  of  Olivet,  such  notes  did  rise, 
When  man's  Redeemer  did  ascend  the  skies. 
1  Divinely  inspired. 

8* 


90  GILES    FLETCHER. 


GILES   FLETCHER, 

NEPHEW  of  Richard  Fletcher,  bishop  of  London  ;  son  of  Giles  fletch- 
er,  LL.D.,  and  brother  of  Phineas  Fletcher,  a  poet  of  kindred  genius, 
was  born  in  London  about  the  year  1586,  and  was  educated  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  where  his  poem  ,f  "  Christ's  Victorie  and  Tri- 
umph" appeared  in  1610.  Little  more  is  known  of  him,  except  that 
he  was  settled  in  the  rectory  of  Alderton,  in  Suffolk,  where,  we  are  told 
by  Fuller,  in  his  quaint  manner,  his  "  clownish  and  low-parted  parish- 
ioners (having  nothing  but  their  shoes  high  about  them)  valued  not 
their  pastor  according  to  his  worth,  which  disposed  him  to  melancholy 
and  hastened  his  dissolution."  He  died  about  the  year  1623. 

THE    INTERPOSITION    OF    JUSTICE. 

BUT  Justice  had  no  sooner  Mercy  seen 
Smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  her  Father's  brow, 
But  up  she  starts,  and  throws  herself  between  ; 
As  when  a  vapor  from  a  moory  slough 
Meeting  with  fresh  Eons,  that  but  now 

Opened  the  world  which  all  in  darkness  lay, 
Doth  heaven's  bright  face  of  his  rays  disarray, 
And  sads  the  smiling  orient  of  the  springing  day. 

She  was  a  virgin  of  austere  regard, 
Not  as  the  world  esteems  her,  deaf  and  blind, 
But  as  the  eagle,  that  hath  oft  compared 
Her  eye  with  heaven's,  so,  and  more  brightly  shined 
Her  lamping  sight ;  for  she  the  same  could  wind 
Into  the  solid  heart,  and  with  her  ears 
The  silence  of  the  thought  loud  speaking  hears, 
And  in  one  hand  a  pair  of  even  scales  she  wears. 

No  riot  of  affection  revel  kept 
Within  her  breast,  but  a  still  apathy 
Possessed  all  her  soul,  which  softly  slept, 


GILES    FLETCHER.  91 


Securely,  without  tempest ;  no  sad  cry 

Awakes  her  pity,  but  wronged  Poverty 

Sending  her  eyes  to  heaven  swimming  in  tears, 
And  hideous  clamors  ever  struck  her  ears, 

Wetting  the  blazing  sword  that  in  her  hand  she  bears. 

The  winged  lightning  is  her  Mercury, 
And  round  about  her  mighty  thunders  sound  ; 
Impatient  of  himself  lies  pining  by 
Pale  sickness,  with  his  kerchered  head  up  wound, 
And  thousand  noisome  plagues  attend  her  round ; 
But  if  her  cloudy  brow  but  once  grow  foul, 
The  flints  do  melt,  the  rocks  to  water  roll, 
And  airy  mountains  shake,  and  frightened  shadows  howl. 

Famine,  and  bloodless  Care,  and  bloody  War, 
Want,  and  the  want  of  knowledge  how  to  use 
Abundance,  Age,  and  Fear  that  runs  afar 
Before  his  fellow  Grief,  that  aye  pursues 
His  winged  steps  ;  for  who  would  not  refuse 

Grief's  company,  a  dull  and  raw-boned  spright, 
That  lanks  the  cheeks  and  pales  the  freshest  sight, 
Unbosoming  the  cheerful  breast  of  all  delight. 

Before  this  cursed  throng  goes  Ignorance, 
That  needs  will  lead  the  way  it  cannot  see  ; 
And,  after  all,  Death  doth  his  flag  advance, 
And,  in  the  midst,  Strife  still  would  roguing  be, 
Whose  ragged  flesh  and  clothes  did  well  agree ; 
And  round  about  amazed  Horror  flies, 
And  over  all,  Shame  veils  his  guilty  eyes, 
And  underneath  Hell's  hungry  throat  still  yawning  lies. 


THE  SHAME  OF  NOT  LOVING  GOD. 

WERE  he  not  wilder  than  the  savage  beast, 

Prouder  than  haughty  hills,  harder  than  rocks, 
Colder  than  fountains  from  their  springs  released, 


92  GILES    FLETCHER. 


Lighter  than  air,  blinder  than  senseless  stocks, 
More  changing  than  the  river's  curling  locks ; 
If  reason  would  not,  sense  would  soon  reprove  him, 
And  unto  shame,  if  not  to  sorrow,  move  him, 
To  see  cold  floods,  wild  beasts,  dull  stocks,  hard  stones, 
outlove  him. 


"  TO  WHOM  ELSE  CAN  WE  FLY  f 

SHOULD  any  to  himself  for  safety  fly  ? 

The  way  to  save  himself,  if  anywhere, 

Were  to  fly  from  himself ;  should  he  rely 

Upon  the  promise  of  his  wife  ?  but  there 
What  can  he  see  but  that  he  most  may  fear, 

A  syren  sweet  to  death  ?  upon  his  friends  ? 

Who,  that  he  needs,  or  that  he  hath  not,  lends  ? 

Or  wanting  aid  himself,  aid  to  another  sends  ? 


His  strength  ?  but  dust :  his  pleasure  ?  cause  of  pain  : 
His  hope  ?  false  courtier  :  youth  or  beauty  ?  brittle  : 

Entreaty  ?  fond  :  repentance  ?  late  and  vain  : 

Just  recompense  ?  the  world  were  all  too  little  : 
Thy  love  ?  he  hath  no  title  to  a  tittle  : 

Hell's  force  ?  in  vain  her  furies  hell  shall  gather : 

His  servants,  kinsmen,  or  his  children  rather  ? 

His  child,  if  good,  shall  judge ;  if  bad,  shall  curse  his  father , 

His  life  ?  that  brings  him  to  his  end  and  leaves  him  : 

His  end  ?  that  leaves  him  to  begin  his  wo  : 
His  goods  ?  what  good  in  that,  that  so  deceives  him  ? 
His  gods  of  wood  ?  their  feet,  alas  !  are  slow 
To  go  to  help,  that  must  be  helped  to  go : 
Honor  ?  great  worth  ?  ah  !  little  worth  they  be 
Unto  their  owners  :  wit  ?  that  makes  him  see 
He  wanted  wit,  that  thought  he  had  it  wanting  Thee. 


GILES    FLETCHER.  93 


The  sea  to  drink  him  quick  ?  that  casts  his  dead : 
Angels  to  spare  ?  they  punish  :  night  to  hide  ? 

The  world  shall  burn  in  light :  the  heavens  to  spread 
Their  wings  to  save  him  ?  heaven  itself  shall  slide 
And  roll  away,  like  melting  stars  that  glide 

Along  their  oily  threads :  his  mind  pursues  him  : 

His  house  to  shroud,  or  hills  to  fall  and  bruise  him  ? 

As  sergeants  both  attach  and  witnesses  accuse  him. 


MERCY. 


As  when  the  cheerful  sun  enlamping1  wide, 
Glads  all  the  world  with  his  uprising  ray, 
And  woos  the  widowed  earth  afresh  to  pride, 
And  paints  her  bosom  with  the  flowery  May, 
His  silent  sister2  steals  him  quite  away ; 
Wrapped  in  a  sable  cloud  from  mortal  eyes, 
The  hasty  stars  at  noon  begin  to  rise  ; 
And  headlong  to  his  early  roost  the  sparrow  flies. 

But  soon  as  he  again  disshadowed  is, 

Restoring  the  blind  world  his  blemished  sight, 
As  though  another  day  were  newly  his, 
The  cozened  birds  busily  take  their  flight, 
And  wonder  at  the  shortness  of  the  night : 
So  Mercy  once  again  herself  displays 
Out  from  her  sister's  cloud,  and  open  lays 
Those  sunshine  looks,  whose  beams  would  dim  a  thousand 
days. 


THE      SPEECH      OF     MERCY. 

SUCH  when  as  Mercy  her  beheld  from  high, 
In  a  dark  valley,  drowned  with  her  own  tears, 

1  Spreading  his  rays  like  a  lamp.  a  The  Moon. 


94  GILES    FLETCHER. 


One  of  her  Graces  she  sent  hastily, 

Smiling  Irene,1  that  a  garland  wears 

Of  gilded  olive  on  her  fairer  hairs, 
To  crown  the  fainting  soul's  true  sacrifice ; 
Whom  when  as  sad  Repentance  coming  spies, 
The  holy  desperado  wiped  her  swollen  eyes. 

But  Mercy  felt  a  kind  remorse  to  run 

Through  her  soft  veins,  and  therefore  hying  fast 
To  give  an  end  to  silence,  thus  begun : — 
"  Ay,  honored  Father,  if  no  joy  thou  hast 
But  to  reward  desert,  reward  at  last 
The  devil's  voice  spoke  with  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Fit  to  hiss  out  the  words  so  deadly  stung, 
And  let  him  die,  death's  bitter  charms  so  sweetly  sung. 

He  was  the  father  of  that  hopeless  season, 

That  to  serve  other  gods  forgot  their  own : 
The  reason  was,  Thou  wast  above  their  reason : 
They  would  have  any  gods  rather  than  none, 
A  beastly  serpent  or  a  senseless  stone ; 
And  these  as  Justice  hates,  so  I  deplore ; 
But  the  up-ploughed  heart,  all  rent  and  tore, 
Though  wounded  by  itself,  I  gladly  would  restore. 

He  was  but  dust :  why  feared  he  not  to  fall  ? 

And  being  fallen,  why  should  he  fear  to  die  ? 
Cannot  the  hand  that  made  him  first  restore  him  ? 
Depraved  of  sin,  should  he  deprived  lie 
Of  grace  ?     Can  He  not  hide  infirmity 
That  gave  him  strength  ?     Unworthy  the  forsaking 
He  is,  who  eve^r  weighs  without  mistaking, 
Or  Maker  of  the  man,  or  manner  of  his  making. 

Who  shall  thy  temple  incense  any  more, 
Or  at  thy  altar  crown  the  sacrifice, 

1  Peace. 


GILES    FLETCHER.  95 


Or  strew  with  idle  flowers  the  hallowed  floor, 

Or  what  should  prayer  deck  with  herbs  and  spice, 
Her  vials  breathing  orisons  of  price  ? 

If  all  must  pay  that  which  all  cannot  pay, 

Oh !  lirst  begin  with  me,  and  Mercy  slay, 

And  thy  thrice-honored  Son  that  now  beneath  doth  stray ! 

But  if  or  He  or  I  may  live  and  speak, — 

And  heaven  can  joy  to  see  a  sinner  weep, — 
Oh  !  let  not  Justice'  iron  sceptre  break 

A  heart  already  broke,  that  low  doth  creep, 
And  with  proud  humblesse  her  feet's  dust  doth  sweep. 
Must  all  go  by  desert  ?  is  nothing  free  ? 
Ah !  if  but  those  who  only  worthy  be, 
None  should  Thee  ever  see,  none  should  Thee  ever  see. 

What  man  hath  done  that  man  shall  not  undo, 

Since  God  to  him  is  grown  so  near  akin? 
Did  his  foes  slay  him  ?  He  shall  slay  his  foe : 
Hath  he  lost  all  ?  He  all  again  shall  win : 
Is  sin  his  master  ?  He  shall  master  sin. 
Too  hardy  soul,  with  sin  the  field  to  try : 
The  only  way  to  conquer  was  to  fly ; 
But  thus  long  death  hath  lived,  and  now  death's   self 
shall  die. 

He  is  a  path,  if  any  be  misled  ; 

He  is  a  robe,  if  any  naked  be  ; 
If  any  chance  to  hunger,  He  is  bread ; 
If  any  be  a  bondman,  He  is  free ; 
If  any  be  but  weak,  how  strong  is  He  ! 
To  dead  men  life  He  is,  to  sick  men  health  ; 
To  blind  men  sight,  and  to  the  needy  wealth ; 
A  pleasure  without  loss,  a  treasure  without  stealth. 

Who  can  forget — never  to  be  forgot — 

The  time  that  all  the  world  in  slumber  lies, 


90  GILES    FLETCHER. 


When  like  the  stars  the  singing  angels  shot 
To  earth,  and  heaven  awaked  all  his  eyes 
To  see  another  sun  at  midnight  rise 
On  earth  ?  was  never  sight  of  pareil  fame, 
For  God  before  man  like  Himself  did  frame, 
But  God  Himself  now  like  a  mortal  man  became. 

A  child  He  was,  and  had  not  learned  to  speak, 

That  with  his  word  the  world  before  did  make ; 
His  mother's  arms  Him  bore,  He  was  so  weak, 

That  with  one  hand  the  vaults  of  heaven  could  shake. 
See  how  small  room  my  infant  Lord  doth  take, 
Whom  all  the  world  is  not  enough  to  hold ! 
Who  of  his  years  or  of  his  age  hath  told  ? 
Never  such  age  so  young,  never  a  child  so  old. 

And  yet  but  newly  He  was  inf anted, 

And  yet  already  He  was  sought  to  die ; 
Yet  scarcely  born,  already  banished  ; 
Not  able  yet  to  go,  and  forced  to  fly ; 
But  scarcely  fled  away,  when,  by  and  by, 
The  tyrant's  sword  with  blood  is  all  defiled, 
And  Rachel,  for  her  sons,  with  fury  wild, 
Cries,  0  thou  cruel  king  !  and,  0  my  sweetest  child ! 

Egypt  his  nurse  became,  where  Nilus  springs, 

Who  straight  to  entertain  the  rising  sun, 
The  hasty  harvest  in  his  bosom  brings  ; 

But  now  for  drought  the  fields  were  all  undone, 
And  now  with  waters  all  is  overrun : 
So  fast  thy  Cynthian  mountains  poured  their  snow, 
When  once  they  felt  the  sun  so  near  them  glow, 
That  Nilus  Egypt  lost,  and  to  a  sea  did  grow. 

The  angels  carolled  loud  their  song  of  peace  ; 

The  cursed  oracles  were  stricken  dumb ; 
To  see  their  Shepherd  the  poor  shepherds  press  ; 

To  see  their  King  the  kingly  sophics  come  ; 

And  then,  to  guide  unto  his  master's  home, 


GILES    FLETCHER.  97 


A  star  comes  dancing  up  the  orient, 

That  springs  for  joy  over  the  strawy  tent ; 

When  gold  to  make  their  prince  a  crown  they  all  present. 

Young  John,  glad  child,  before  he  could  be  born, 

Leaped  in  the  womb,  his  joy  to  prophesy ; 
Old  Anna,  though  with  age  all  spent  and  worn, 
Proclaims  her  Saviour  to  posterity ; 
And  Simeon  fast  his  dying  notes  doth  ply. 
Oli,  how  the  blessed  souls  about  him  trace ! 
It  is  the  sire  of  heaven  thou  dost  embrace : 
Sing,  Simeon,  sing— sing,  Simeon,  sing  apace." 

With  that  the  mighty  thunder  dropt  away 

From  God's  unwary  arm,  now  milder  grown, 
And  melted  into  tears  ;  as  if  to  pray 
For  pardon  and  for  pity,  it  had  known 
That  should  have  been  for  sacred  vengeance  thrown ; 
There,  too,  the  armies  angelic  devowed 
Their  former  rage,  and  all  to  Mercy  bowed ; 
Then*  broken  weapons  at  her  feet  they  gladly  strowed. 

Bring,  bring,  ye  Graces,  all  your  silver  flaskets, 

Painted  with  every  choicest  flower  that  grows, 
That  I  may  soon  unflower  your  fragrant  baskets, 
To  strow  the  fields  with  odors  where  He  goes  ; 
Let  whatsoe'er  He  treads  on  be  a  rose. 
So  down  she  lets  her  eyelids  fall  to  shine 
Upon  the  rivers  of  bright  Palestine, 
Whose  woods  drop  honey,  and  her  rivers  skip  with  wine, 
9 


98  GILES    FLETCHER. 


CHRIST    AND    THE    TEMPTER    UPON    ASTR^EA. 

HERE  did  Presumption  her  pavilion  spread 

Over  the  temple,  the  bright  stars  among  ; 
(Ah !  that  her  foot  should  trample  on  the  head 

Of  that  most  reverend  place  !)  and  a  lewd  throng 
Of  wanton  boys  sung  her  a  pleasant  song, 
Of  love,  long  life,  of  mercy,  and  of  grace  ; 
And  every  one  her  dearly  did  embrace, 
And  she  herself  enamored  were  of  her  own  face. 

A  painted  face  belied  with  vermeil  store, 

Which  light  Euelpis  every  day  did  trim, 
That  in  one  hand  a  gilded  anchor  wore, 

Not  fixed  on  the  rock,  but  on  the  brim 
Of  the  wide  air  she  let  it  loosely  swim  : 
Her  other  hand  a  sprinkle  carried, 
And  ever,  when  her  lady  wavered, 
Court  holy-water  all  upon  her  sprinkled. 

Poor  fool !  she  thought  herself  in  wondrous  price 

With  God,  as  if  in  Paradise  she  were  ; 
But  were  she  not  in  a  fool's  Paradise, 

She  might  have  seen  more  reason  to  despair : 
But  him  she  like  some  ghastly  fiend  did  fear ; 
And  therefore  as  that  wretch  hewed  out  his  cell 
Under  the  bowels  in  the  heart  of  hell, 
So  she  above  the  moon  amid  the  stars  Avould  dwell. 

Her  tent  with  sunny  clouds  was  ceiled  aloft, 

And  so  exceeding  shone  with  a  false  light, 
That  heaven  itself  to  her  it  seemed  oft, 

Heaven  without  clouds  to  her  deluded  sight : 
But  clouds  withouten  heaven  it  was  aright ; 
And  as  her  house  was  built,  so  did  her  brain 
Build  castles  in  the  air,  with  idle  pain, 
But  heart  she  never  had  in  all  her  body  vain. 


GILES    FLETCHER.  99 

Like  as  a  ship  in  which  no  balance  lies, 

Without  a  pilot  on  the  sleeping  waves, 
Fairly  along  with  wind  and  water  flies, 

And  painted  masts  with  silken  sails  embraves, 
That  Neptune's  self  the  bragging  vessel  saves. 
To  laugh  awhile  at  her  so  proud  array ; 
Her  waving  streamers  loosely  she  lets  play, 
And  flagging  colors  shine  as  bright  as  smiling  day. 

But  all  so  soon  as  heaven  his  brows  doth  bend, 

She  veils  her  banners,  and  pulls  in  her  beams ; 
The  empty  bark  the  raging  billows  send 

Up  to  the  Olympic  waves,  and  Argus  seems 
Again  to  ride  upon  our  lower  streams  : 
Right  so  Presumption  did  herself  behave, 
Tossed  about  with  every  stormy  wave, 
And  in  white  lawn  she  went  most  like  an  angel  brave. 


CHRIST    AND    THE    TEMPTER    UPON    THE    MOUNTAIN. 

ALL  suddenly  the  hill  his  snow  devours, 

In  lieu  whereof  a  goodly  garden  grew  ; 
As  if  the  snow  had  melted  into  flowers, 

Which  their  sweet  breath  in  subtle  vapors  threw, 
That  all  about  perfumed  spirits  flew ; 
For  whatsoe'er  might  aggravate1  the  sense, 
In  all  the  world,  or  please  the  appetence, 
Here  it  was  poured  out  in  lavish  affluence. 

Not  lovely  Ida  might  with  this  compare, 

Though  many  streams  his  banks  besilvered, 

Though  Xanthus  with  his  golden  sands  he  bore ; 
Nor  Hybla,  though  his  thyme  depastured, 
As  fast  again  with  honey  blossomed  ; 

1  Used  in  the  sense  of  "  heighten,"  or  "  give  pleasure  to." 


100  GILES    FLETCHER. 


Nor  Rhodope,  nor  Tempo's  flowery  plain ; 

Adonis'  garden  was  to  this  but  vain, 

Though  Plato  on  his  beds  a  flood  of  praise  doth  rain. 

The  garden  like  a  lady  fair  was  cut, 

That  lay  as  if  she  slumbered  in  delight, 
And  to  the  open  skies  her  eyes  did  shut ; 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven  were  sembled  right 
In  a  large  round,  set  with  the  flowers  of  light ; 
The  flowers-de-luce,  and  the  round  sparks  of  dew 
That  hung  upon  their  azure  leaves,  did  shew 
Like  twinkling  stars  that  sparkle  in  the  evening  blue. 


AMBITION     AND     VAIN     GLORY. 

THEREFORE  above  the  rest  Ambition  sate ; 

His  court  with  glittering  pearl  was  all  inwalled ; 
And  round  about  the  wall,  in  chairs  of  state, 
And  most  majestic  splendor,  were  installed 
A  hundred  kings,  whose  temples  were  impalled 
In  golden  diadems,  set  here  and  there 
With  diamonds,  and  gemmed  everywhere  ; 
And  of  their  golden  verges  none  desceptred  were. 

High  over  all  Vain  Glory's  blazing  throne, 

In  her  bright  turret,  all  of  crystal  wrought, 
Like  Phoebus'  lamp,  in  midst  of  heaven  shone ; 

Whose  starry  top,  with  pride  infernal  fraught, 
Self-arching  columns  to  uphold  were  taught ; 
In  which  her  image  still  reflected  was 
By  the  smooth  crystal,  that,  most  like  her  glass, 
In  beauty  and  in  frailty  did  all  others  pass. 

A  silver  wand  the  sorceress  did  sway, 

And  for  a  crown  of  gold,  her  hair  she  wore, 

Only  a  garland  of  rosebuds  did  play 

About  her  locks,  and  in  her  hand  she  bore 
A  hollow  globe  of  glass,  that  long  before 


GILES    FLETCHER.  1Q1 


The  fall  of  emptiness  had  bladdered, 
And  all  the  world  therein  depictured, 
Whose  colors,  like  the  rainbow,  ever  vanished. 

Such  watery  orbicles  young  boys  do  blow 

Out  from  their  soapy  shells,  and  much  admire 

The  swimming  world,  which  tenderly  they  row, 
With  easy  breath,  till  it  be  waved  higher ; 
But  if  they  chance  but  roughly  once  aspire, 
The  painted  bubble  instantly  doth  fall. 


THE     REMORSE     OF     JUDAS. 

FOR  him  a  waking  bloodhound,  yelling  loud, 

That  in  his  bosom  long  had  sleeping  laid, 
A  guilty  Conscience,  barking  after  blood, 
Pursued  eagerly,  nor  ever  stayed, 
Till  the  betrayer's  self  it  had  betrayed. 
Oft  changed  the  place,  in  hope  away  to  wind  ; 
But  change  of  place  could  never  change  his  mind : 
Himself  he  flies  to  lose,  and  follows  for  to  find. 

With  that  a  naming  brand  a  Fury  catched, 

And  shook,  and  tossed  it  round  in  his  wild  thought, 
So  from  his  heart  all  joy,  all  comfort  snatched, 
With  every  star  of  hope  ;  and  as  he  sought 
(With  present  fear,  and  future  grief  distraught) 
To  fly  from  his  own  heart,  and  aid  implore 
Of  him,  the  more  he  gives,  that  hath  the  more, 
Whose  storehouse  is  the  heavens,  too  little  for  his  store : 

And  when  wild  Pentheus,  grown  mad  with  fear, 
Whole  troops  of  hellish  hags  about  him  spies  ; 

Two  bloody  suns  stalking  the  dusky  sphere, 

And  twofold  Thebes  runs  rolling  in  his  eyes  ; 
Or  through  the  scene  staring  Orestes  flies, 
9* 


102  U1LE3    FLETCHER. 


With  eyes  flung  back  upon  his  mother's  ghost, 

That  with  infernal  serpents  all  embossed, 

And  torches  quenched  in  blood,  doth  her  stern  son  accost. 

Such  horrid  gorgons,  and  misformed  forms 

Of  damned  fiends,  flew  dancing  in  his  heart, 

That,  now,  unable  to  endure  their  storms, 

"  Fly,  fly,  (he  cries)  thyself,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Hell,  hell,  already  burns  in  every  part." 
So  down  into  his  Torturer's  arms  he  fell — 

Yet  oft  he  snatched,  and  started  as  he  hung : — 

So  when  the  senses  half  enslumbered  lie, 
The  headlong  body,  ready  to  be  flung 

By  the  deluding  fancy  from  some  high 
And  craggy  rock,  recovers  greedily, 
And  clasps  the  yielding  pillow,  half  asleep, 
And,  as  from  heaven  it  tumbled  to  the  deep, 
Feels  a  cold  sweat  through  every  member  creep. 


REDEMPTION. 

WHEN  I  remember  Christ  our  burden  bears, 

I  look  for  glory,  but  find  misery ; 
I  look  for  joy,  but  find  a  sea  of  tears  ; 

I  look  that  we  should  live,  and  find  Him  die  ; 
I  look  for  angels'  songs,  and  hear  Him  cry : 
Thus  what  I  look,  I  cannot  find  so  well ; 
Or,  rather,  what  I  find  I  cannot  tell ; 
These  banks  so  narrow  are,  these  streams  so  highly  swell. 

Christ  suffers,  and  in  this  his  tears  begin ; 

Suffers  for  us — and  our  joys  spring  in  this  ; 
Suffers  to  death — here  is  his  manhood  seen ; 

Suffers  to  rise — and  here  his  Godhead  is  ; 

For  man,  that  could  not  by  himself  have  ris', 


GILES    FLETCHER.  103 


Out  of  the  grave  doth  by  the  Godhead  rise ; 
And  lived,  that  could  not  die,  in  manhood  dies, 
That  we  in  both  might  live  by  that  sweet  sacrifice. 

A  tree  was  first  the  instrument  of  strife, 

Where  Eve  to  sin  her  soul  did  prostitute ; 
A  tree  is  now  the  instrument  of  life, 

Though  ill  that  trunk  and  this  fair  body  suit : 
Ah  !  fatal  tree,  and  yet  0  blessed  fruit ! 
That  death  to  Him,  this  life  to  us  doth  give  ; 
Strange  is  the  cure,  when  things  past  cure  revive,   • 
And  the  Physician  dies  to  make  his  patient  live. 

Sweet  Eden  was  the  arbor  of  delight, 

Yet  in  his  honey  flowers  our  poison  blew  ; 
Sad  Gethsemane,  the  bower  of  baleful  night, 

Where  Christ  a  health  of  poison  for  us  drew. 
Yet  all  our  honey  in  that  poison  grew : 
So  we  from  sweetest  flowers  could  suck  our  bane, 
And  Christ  from  bitter  venom  could  again 
Extract  life  out  of  death,  and  pleasure  out  of  pain. 

A  man  was  first  the  author  of  our  fall, 

A  Man  is  now  the  author  of  our  rise  : 
A  garden  was  the  place  we  perished  all, 

A  garden  is  the  place  He  pays  our  price : 
And  the  old  serpent,  with  a  new  device, 
Hath  found  a  way  himself  for  to  beguile  ; 
So  he,  that  all  men  tangled  in  his  wile, 
Is  now  by  one  Man  caught,  beguiled  with  his  own  guile.  • 

The  dewy  night  had  with  her  frosty  shade 

Immantled  all  the  world,  and  the  stiff  ground 
Sparkled  in  ice  ;  only  the  Lord  that  made 
All  for  Himself,  Himself  dissolved  found, 
Sweat  without  heat,  and  bled  without  a  wound  ; 
Of  heaven  and  earth,  and  God  and  man  forlore, 
Thrice  begging  help  of  those  whose  sins  he  bore, 
And  thrice  denied  of  one,  not  to  deny  had  swore. 


104  GILES    FLETCHER. 


THE     JOYS     OF     THE     REDEEMED. 

HERE  may  the  band  that  now  in  triumph  shines, 

And  that  (before  they  were  invested  thus) 
In  earthly  bodies  carried  heavenly  minds, 
Pitch  round  about,  in  order  glorious, 
Their  sunny  tents  and  houses  luminous  ; 
All  their  eternal  day  in  songs  employing, 
Joying  their  end  without  end  of  their  joying, 
While  their  Almighty  Prince  destruction  is  destroying. 

Full,  yet  without  satiety  of  that 

Which  whets  and  quiets  greedy  appetite, 
Where  never  sun  did  rise,  nor  ever  sat, 

But  one  eternal  day  and  endless  night 
Gives  time  to  those  whose  time  is  infinite — 
Speaking  with  thought,  obtaining  without  fee, 
Beholding  Him  whom  never  eye  could  see, 
And  magnifying  Him  that  cannot  greater  be. 

How  can  such  joy  as  this  want  words  to  speak  ? 

And  yet  what  words  can  speak  such  joy  as  this  ? 
Far  from  the  world  that  might  their  quiet  break, 
Here  the  glad  souls  the  face  of  beauty  kiss, 
Poured  out  in  pleasure  on  their  beds  of  bliss ; 
And,  drunk  with  nectar  torrents,  ever  hold 
Their  eyes  on  Him,  whose  graces  manifold, 
The  more  they  do  behold,  the  more  they  would  behold. 

Their  sight  drinks  lovely  fires  in  at  their  eyes, 

Their  brain  sweet  incense  with  fine  breath  accloys, 
That  on  God's  sweating  altar  burning  lies  ; 

Their  hungry  ears  feed  on  their  heavenly  noise 
That  angels  sing  to  tell  their  untold  joys ; 
Their  understanding,  naked  truth,  their  wills, 
The  all  and  self-sufficient  goodness  fills, 
That  nothing  here  is  wanting  but  the  want  of  ills. 


GILES    FLETCHER.  105 


No  sorrow  now  hangs  clouding  on  their  brow ; 
No  bloodless  malady  empales  then-  face  ; 
No  age  drops  on  their  hairs  his  silver  snow ; 
No  nakedness  their  bodies  doth  embase ; 
No  poverty  themselves  and  theirs  disgrace ; 
No  fear  of  death  the  joy  of  life  devours  ; 
No  unchaste  sleep  then-  precious  time  deflowers ; 
No  loss,  no  grief,  no  change  wait  on  their  winged  hours. 


But  now  their  naked  bodies  scorn  the  cold, 

And  from  their  eyes  joy  looks  and  laughs  at  pain  ; 
The  infant  wonders  how  he  came  so  old, 

The  old  man  how  he  came  so  young  again ; 
Still  resting,  though  from  sleep  they  still  refrain ; 
Where  all  are  rich,  and  yet  no  gold  they  owe ; 
And  all  are  kings,  and  yet  no  subjects  know ; 
All  full,  and  yet  no  time  they  do  on  food  bestow. 


For  things  that  pass  are  past,  and  in  this  field 

The  indeficient  spring  no  winter  fears ; 
The  trees  together  fruit  and  blossoms  yield, 
The  unfading  lily  leaves  of  silver  bears, 
And  crimson  rose  a  scarlet  garment  wears  ; 
And  all  of  these  on  the  saints'  bodies  grow, 
Not,  as  they  wont,  on  baser  earth  below  : 
Three  rivers  here,  of  milk,  and  wine,  and  honey  flow. 


About  the  holy  city  rolls  a  flood 

Of  molten  crystal,  like  a  sea  of  glass, 
On  which  weak  stream  a  strong  foundation  stood  : 
Of  living  diamonds  the  building  was, 
That  all  things  else,  besides  itself,  did  pass. 
Her  streets,  instead  of  stones,  the  stars  did  pave, 
And  little  pearls  for  dust  it  seemed  to  have, 
On  which  soft  streaming  manna  like  pure  snow  did  wave. 


106  GILES    FLETCHER. 


In  midst  of  this  city  celestial, 

Where  the  eternal  temple  should  have  rose. 
Lightened  the  Idea  Beatifical, 

End  and  beginning  of  each  thing  that  grows ; 
Whose  self  no  end  nor  yet  beginning  knows, 
That  hath  no  eyes  to  see,  nor  ears  to  hear, 
Yet  sees  and  hears,  and  is  all  eye,  all  ear ; 
That  nowhere  is  contained,  and  yet  is  everywhere. 

Changer  of  all  things,  yet  immutable  ; 

Before  and  after  all,  the  first  and  last ; 
That  moving  all,  is  yet  immoveable  ; 

Great  without  quantity  ;  in  whose  forecast 
Things  past  are  present,  things  to  come  are  past ; 
Swift  without  motion ;  to  whose  open  eye 
The  hearts  of  wicked  men  unbreasted  lie ; 
At  once  absent  and  present  to  them,  far  and  nigh. 

It  is  no  flaming  lustre,  made  of  light ; 

No  sweet  consent,  or  well-tuned  harmony ; 
Ambrosia,  for  to  feast  the  appetite, 

Or  flowery  odor  mixed  with  spicery ; 
No  soft  embrace  or  pleasure  bodily ; 
And  yet  it  is  a  kind  of  inward  feast, 
A  harmony  that  sounds  within  the  breast, 
An  odor,  light,  embrace,  in  which  the  soul  doth  rest. 

A  heavenly  feast  no  hunger  can  consume ; 

A  light  unseen,  yet  shines  in  every  place ; 
A  sound  no  time  can  steal ;  a  sweet  perfume 
No  winds  can  scatter ;  an  entire  embrace 
That  no  satiety  can  e'er  unlace  ; 
Ingraced  into  so  high  a  favor  there, 
The  saints  with  their  beaupeers  whole  worlds  outwear, 
And  things  unseen  do  see,  and  things  unheard  do  hear. 

Ye  blessed  souls,  grown  richer  by  your  spoil, 

Whose  loss,  though  great,  is  cause  of  greater  gains ; 


KEXRY    K1XG.  107 


Here  may  your  weary  spirits  rest  from  toil, 

Spending  your  endless  evening  that  remains 
Among  those  white  flocks  and  celestial  trains 
That  feed  upon  their  Shepherd's  eyes,  and  frame 
That  heavenly  music  of  so  wondrous  frame, 
Psalming  aloud  the  holy  honors  of  his  name  ! 


HENEY  KING. 

HENRY  KING  was  born  in  1591.  He  was  successively  chaplain  to 
James  the  First,  Dean  of  Rochester,  and  Bishop  of  Chichester.  He 
died  in  1669.  An  edition  of  his  "Poems  and  Psalms"  was  published 
in  London  in  1843,  with  an  interesting  Biography  by  the  Rev.  J.  Han- 
nah. B.  A. 

THE      ANNIVERSARY. 
AN    ELEGY. 

So  soon  grown  old  !  hast  thou  been  six  years  dead  ? 
Poor  earth,  once  by  my  love  inhabited ! 
And  must  I  live  to  calculate  the  time 
To  which  thy  blooming  youth  could  never  climb, 
But  fell  in  the  ascent !  yet  have  not  I 
Studied  enough  thy  losses'  history. 

How  happy  were  mankind,  if  Death's  strict  laws 
Consumed  our  lamentations  like  the  cause  ! 
Or  that  our  grief,  turning  to  dust,  might  end 
With  the  dissolved  body  of  a  friend ! 

But  sacred  Heaven !  O,  how  just  thou  art 
Tn  stamping  death's  impression  on  that  heart, 
Which  through  thy  favors  would  grow  insolent, 
Were  it  not  physicked  by  sharp  discontent. 
If,  then,  it  stand  resolved  in  thy  decree, 
That  still  I  must  doomed  to  a  desert  be, 
Sprung  out  of  my  lone  thoughts,  which  know  no  path 
But  what  my  own  misfortune  beaten  hath  : — 


108  HENRY    KING. 


If  thou  wilt  bind  me  living  to  a  course, 
And  I  must  slowly  waste ;  I  then  of  force 
Stoop  to  thy  great  appointment,  and  obey 
That  will  which  naught  avails  me  to  gainsay. 
For  whilst  in  sorrow's  maze  I  wander  on, 
I  do  but  follow  life's  vocation. 

Sure  we  were  made  to  grieve  :  at  our  first  birth, 
With  cries  we  took  possession  of  the  earth ; 
And  though  the  lucky  man  reputed  be 
Fortune's  adopted  son,  yet  only  he 
Is  nature's  true-born  child,  who  sums  his  years 
(Like  me)  with  no  arithmetic  but  tears. 


THE      DIRGE. 

WHAT  is  the  existence  of  man's  life 
But  open  war  or  slumbered  strife, 
Where  sickness  to  his  sense  presents 
The  combat  of  the  elements, 
And  never  feels  a  perfect  peace, 
Till  death's  cold  hand  signs  his  release  ? 

It  is  a  storm,  where  the  hot  blood 
Outvies  in  rage  the  boiling  flood : 
And  each  loose  passion  of  the  mind 
Is  like  a  furious  gust  of  wind, 
Which  beats  his  bark  with  many  a  wave, 
Till  he  casts  anchor  in  the  grave. 

It  is  a  flower,  which  buds  and  grows, 
And  withers  as  the  leaves  disclose, 
Whose  spring  and  fall  faint  seasons  keep, 
Like  fits  of  waking  before  sleep  ; 
Then  shrinks  into  that  fatal  mould, 
Where  its  first  being  was  enrolled. 

It  is  a  dream,  whose  seeming  truth 
Is  moralized  in  age  and  youth  ; 
Where  all  the  comforts  he  can  share, 
As  wandering  as  his  fancies  are ; 


HENRY    KING.  109 


Till  in  a  mist  of  dark  decay 

The  dreamer  vanished  quite  away. 

It  is  a  dial,  which  points  out 
The  sunset  as  it  moves  about ; 
And  shadows  out  in  lines  of  night, 
The  subtle  stages  of  time's  flight ; 
Till  all-obscuring  earth  hath  laid 
His  body  in  perpetual  shade. 

It  is  a  weary  interlude, 
Which  doth  short  joys,  long  woes  include  : 
The  world  the  stage,  the  prologue  tears, 
The  acts  vain  hopes  and  varied  fears ; 
The  scene  shuts  up  with  loss  of  breath, 
And  leaves  no  epilogue  but  death. 


sic    VIT A . 

LIKE  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flight  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  Spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to  night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies ; 
The  Spring  entombed  in  Autumn  lies-, 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot, 
The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot. 
10 


110  JAMES    SHIRLEY. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY 

WAS  born  in  London,  in  1594,  and  after  studying  at  both  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  had  a  curacy  for  some  time  at  St.  Albans,  but  embracing 
the  Roman  religion,  gave  up  his  profession,  and  after  a  short  career  as 
a  schoolmaster,  went  to  London,  and  became  a  writer  of  plays.  There 
are  thirty-five  pieces  in  Dyce's  edition  of  his  Dramatic  Works,  recently 
published.  He  and  his  wife  died,  of  grief,  or  exposure,  the  day  after 
the  great  fire  in  London. 

DEATH'S    CONQUEST. 

THE  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate, 

Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings  : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And,  in  the  dust,  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murm'ring  breath, 
When  they  pale  captives  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds ; 
All  hands  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb, 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just, 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 


GEORGE    WITHER.  Ill 


GEORGE  WITHER. 

THIS  poet  was  born  of  a  good  family  at  Bentworth,  near  Alton,  in 
1588,  and  at  sixteen  was  sent  to  Oxford,  where,  says  Campbell,  he  had 
just  begun  to  fall  in  love  with  the  mysteries  of  logic,  when  his  father 
called  him  home  to  hold  the  plough.  He  was  even  afraid  of  being  put 
to  some  mechanical  trade,  when  he  contrived  to  escape  to  London,  and 
with  great  simplicity  had  proposed  to  try  his  fortune  at  court.  He 
was  surprised  to  find  that  to  succeed  he  must  be  a  flatterer ;  and  so, 
to  show  his  independence,  wrote  his  "  Abuses  Whipt  and  Stript,"  for 
which  he  was  sent  to  prison,  where  he  was  visited  by  some  of  the 
finest  geniuses  of  the  time,  and  where  he  wrote  his  "  Shepherd's 
Hunting."  After  a  while  he  was  liberated,  but  he  continued  to  be  an 
active  religious  and  political  partisan  ;  and  though  King  James,  to 
whom  he  dedicated  his  "  Hymns  and  Songs  of  the  Church,"  made  him 
a  captain  of  horse,  and  quartermaster-general  of  his  regiment,  in  the 
expedition  against  the  Scots,  under  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  no  sooner 
had  the  civil  war  broke  out  than  he  sold  his  estate  to  raise  a  troop  for 
the  Parliament.  He  was  not  very  fohunate  as  a  soldier,  but  Crom- 
well made  him  a  major-general  of  the  horse  and  foot  for  the  county  of 
Surrey.  Upon  the  restoration,  the  estates  he  had  acquired  were  taken 
from  him,  and  he  was  cast  into  prison,  where,  after  being  treated  with 
great  severity  for  three  years,  he  died  in  1677.  Mr.  Wilmot  has 
shown,  in  his  "Laves  of  the  Sacred  Poets,"  that  there  has  been  very 
little  intelligent  criticism  of  Wither,  and  that  he  was  a  much  truer  poet 
and  more  worthy  man  than  it  has  been  the  custom  to  represent  him. 
The  reader  of  the  following  extracts  will  agree  to  a  high  estimate  of 
his  abilities. 


EXTRACT    FROM    A    PRISONER  S    LAY. 

FIRST  think,  my  soul,  if  I  have  foes 

That  take  a  pleasure  in  my  care, 

And  to  procure  those  outward  woes 

Have  thus  enwrapt  me  unaware.; 

Thou  shouldst  by  much  more  careful  be, 
Since  greater  foes  lay  wait  for  thee. 


112  GEORGE    WITHER. 


By  my  late  hopes  that  now  are  crossed, 
Consider  those  that  firmer  be, 
And  make  the  freedom  I  have  lost, 
A  means  that  may  remember  thee. 

Had  Christ  not  thy  Redeemer  been, 
What  horrid  state  hadst  thou  been  in  ! 

Or  when  through  me  thou  seest  a  man 
Condemned  unto  a  mortal  death, 
How  sad  he  looks,  how  pale,  how  wan, 
Drawing,  with  fear,  his  panting  breath  ; 
Think  if  in  that  such  grief  thou  see, 
How  sad  will  "  Go  ye  cursed"  be ! 

These  iron  chains,  these  bolts  of  steel, 
Which  often  poor  offenders  grind  ; 
The  wants  and  cares  which  they  do  feel 
May  bring  some  greater  things  to  mind. 
For  by  their  grief  thou  shalt  do  well 
To  think  upon  the  pains  of  Hell. 

Again,  when  he  that  feared  to  die 
(Past  hope)  doth  see  his  pardon  brought, 
Read  but  the  joy  that's  in  his  eye, 
And  then  convey  it  to  thy  thought ; 

Then  think  between  thy  heart  and  thee, 
How  glad  will  "  Come  ye  blessed"  be ! 


THE     MARIGOLD. 

WHEN  with  a  serious  musing  I  behold 

The  grateful  and  obsequious  marigold, 

How  duly,  every  morning  she  displays 

Her  open  breast,  when  Titan  spreads  his  rays  : 

How  she  observes  him  in  his  daily  walk, 

Still  bending  towards  him  her  small  slender  stalk  ; 

How  when  he  down  declines,  she  droops  and  mourns, 

Bedewed,  as  'twere  with  tears,  till  he  returns  ; 


GEORGE    WITHER.  113 


And  how  she  veils  her  flowers  when  he  is  gone, 

As  if  she  scorned  to  be  looked  on 

By  an  inferior  eye ;  or  did  contemn 

To  wait  upon  a  meaner  light  than  him ; — 

When  this  I  meditate,  methinks  the  flowers 

Have  spirits  far  more  generous  than  ours, 

And  give  us  fair  examples  to  despise 

The  servile  fawnings  and  idolatries, 

therewith  we  court  these  earthly  things  below, 

vVhich  merit  not  the  service  we  bestow. 

But,  oh  !  my  God,  though  grovelling  I  appear, 

Upon  the  ground,  and  have  a  footing  here, 

Which  hales  me  downward,  yet  in  my  desire 

To  that  which  is  above  me  I  aspire  ; 

And  all  my  best  affections  I  profess 

To  Him  that  is  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

Oh !  keep  the  morning  of  his  incarnation, 

The  burning  noontide  of  his  bitter  passion, 

The  night  of  his  descending,  and  the  height 

Of  his  ascension, — ever  in  my  sight : 

That  imitating  Him  in  what  I  may, 

I  never  follow  an  inferior  way. 

PSALM      CXLVIII. 

COME,  oh  !  come,  with  sacred  lays, 
Let  us  sound  the  Almighty's  praise ; 
Hither  bring  in  true  consent, 
Heart  and  voice,  and  instrument. 
Let  the  orpharion1  sweet, 
With  the  harp  and  viol  meet : 
To  your  voices  tune  the  lute  : 
Let  not  tongue  nor  string  be  mute  : 
Not  a  creature  dumb  be  found, 
That  hath  either  voice  or  sound. 
Let  such  things  as  do  not  live, 
In  still  music  praises  give  ; 

1  All  ancient  stringed  instrument,  somewhat  resembling  the  guitar. 
10* 


114  GEORGE    WITHER. 


Lowly  pipe,  ye  worms  that  creep 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  deep  ; 
Loud  aloft  your  voices  strain, 
Beasts  and  monsters  of  the  main  ; 
Birds,  your  warbling  treble  sing  ; 
Clouds,  your  peals  of  thunder  ring  ; 
Sun  and  moon  exalted  higher, 
And  you  stars,  augment  the  quire. 

Come,  ye  sons  of  human  race, 
In  this  chorus  take  your  place, 
And  amid  this  mortal  throng, 
Be  you  masters  of  the  song. 
Angels  and  celestial  powers, 
Be  the  noblest  tenor  yours. 
Let  in  praise  of  God  the  sound, 
Run  a  never-ending  round, 
That  our  holy  hymn  may  be 
Everlasting  as  is  He. 

From  the  earth's  vast  hollow  womb, 
Music's  deepest  base  shall  come. 
Sea  and  floods  from  shore  to  shore 
Shall  the  counter-tenor  roar. 
To  this  concert,  when  we  sing, 
Whistling  winds,  your  descant  bring  : 
Which  may  bear  the  sound  above 
Where  the  orb  of  fire  doth  move, 
And  so  climb  from  sphere  to  sphere, 
Till  our  song  the  Almighty  hear. 

So  shall  He  from  heaven's  high  tower 
On  the  earth  his  blessing  shower ; 
All  this  huge  wide  orb  we  see, 
Shall  one  quire,  one  temple  be  ; 
There  our  voices  we  will  rear, 
Till  we  fill  it  everywhere  : 
And  enforce  the  fiends  that  dwell 
In  the  air,  to  sink  to  hell. 
Then,  oh  !  come,  with  sacred  lays, 
Let  us  sound  the  Almighty's  praise. 


GEORGE    WITHER.  115 


THE      VIRTUOUS      MAN.1 

THUS  fares  the  man  whom  virtue,  beacon-like, 

Hath  fixed  upon  the  hills  of  eminence  ; 
At  him  the  tempests  of  mad  envy  strike, 

And  rage  against  his  piles  of  innocence  ; 
But  still  the  more  they  wrong  him,  and  the  more 

They  seek  to  keep  his  worth  from  being  known, 
They  daily  make  it  greater  than  before, 

And  cause  his  fame  the  further  to  be  blown. 
When,  therefore,  no  self-doting  arrogance, 

But  virtues  covered  with  a  modest  veil, 
Break  through  obscurity,  and  thee  advance 

To  place  where  envy  shall  thy  worth  assail, 
Discourage  not  thyself,  but  stand  the  shocks 

Of  wrath  and  fury.     Let  them  snarl  and  bite, 
Pursue  thee  with  detraction,  slander,  mocks, 

And  all  the  venomed  engines  of  despite. 
Thou  art  above  their  malice,  and  the  blaze 

Of  thy  celestial  fire  shall  shine  so  clear, 
That  their  besotted  souls  thou  shalt  amaze, 

And  make  thy  splendors  to  their  shame  appear. 


A    PRAYER    FOR    SEASONABLE    WEATHER. 

LORD,  should  the  sun,  the  clouds,  the  wind, 

The  air  and  seasons  be 
To  us  so  froward  and  unkind 

As  we  are  false  to  Thee  ; 
All  fruits  would  quite  away  be  burned, 

Or  lie  in  water  drowned, 
Or  blasted  be,  or  overturned, 

Or  chilled  on  the  ground. 

1  This  poem  was  illustrated  by  an  Emblem  representing  a  flame  upon  a 
mountain,  driven  to  and  fro  by  tempestuous  winds,  yet  continually  gather- 
ing strength  and  brightness. 


116  GEORGE    WITHER. 


But  from  our  duty  though  we  swerve, 

Thou  still  dost  mercy  show, 
And  deign  Thy  creatures  to  preserve 

That  men  might  thankful  grow  ; 
Yet,  though  from  day  to  day  we  sin, 

And  Thy  displeasure  gain, 
No  sooner  we  to  cry  begin, 

But  pity  we  obtain. 

The  weather  now  Thou  changed  hast, 

That  put  us  late  to  fear, 
And  when  our  hopes  were  almost  past, 

Then  comfort  did  appear. 
The  heaven  the  earth's  complaint  hath  heard, 

They  reconciled  be ; 
And  Thou  such  weather  hast  prepared, 

As  we  desired  of  Thee. 


DIVERS      PROVIDENCES. 

WHEN  all  the  year  our  fields  are  fresh  and  green, 

And  while  sweet  showers  and  sunshine,  every  day, 
As  oft  as  need  requireth,  come  between 

The  heavens  and  earth,  they  heedless  pass  away. 
The  fulness  and  continuance  of  a  blessing 

Doth  make  us  to  be  senseless  of  the  good  ; 
And  if  sometimes  it  fly  not  our  possessing, 

The  sweetness  of  it  is  not  understood  ; 
Had  we  no  winter,  summer  would  be  thought 

Not  half  so  pleasing  :  and  if  tempests  were  not, 
Such  comforts  by  a  calm  could  not  be  brought ; 

For  things,  save  by  their  opposites,  appear  not. 
Botn  health  and  wealth  are  tasteless  unto  some, 

And  so  is  ease  and  every  other  pleasure, 
Till  poor  or  sick,  or  grieved,  they  become, 

And  then  they  relish  these  in  ampler  measure. 
God,  therefore,  full  of  kind,  as  He  is  wise, 

So  tempereth  all  the  favors  He  will  do  us, 


GEORGE    WITHER.  117 


That  we  his  bounties  may  the  better  prize, 

And  make  his  chastisements  less  bitter  to  us. 
One  while  a  scorching  indignation  burns 

The  flowers  and  blossoms  of  our  hopes  away, 
Which  into  scarcity  our  plenty  turns, 

And  chaugeth  new-mown  grass  to  parched  hay ; 
Anon  his  fruitful  showers  and  pleasing  dews, 

Commixed  with  cheerful  rays,  He  sendeth  down. 
And  then  the  barren  earth  her  crops  renews, 

Which  with  rich  harvests  hills  and  valleys  crown ; 
For,  as  to  relish  joys,  He  sorrow  sends, 
So  comfort  on  temptation  still  attends. 

THE    GLORY    OF    CHRIST    UNDER    THE    FIGURE    OF    SOLOMON. 
CANTICLES    III. 

WHAT'S  he  that  from  the  desert  there 

Doth  like  those  smoky  pillars  come, 
Which  from  the  incense  and  the  myrrh, 

And  all  the  merchant's  spices  fume  ? 
His  bed,  which  lo !  is  Solomon's, 

Threescore  stout  men  about  it  stand  ; 
They  are  of  Israel's  valiant  ones, 

And  all  of  them  with  swords  in  hand. 

All  those  are  men  expert  in  fight, 

And  each  man  on  his  thigh  doth  wear 
A  sword,  that  terrors  of  the  night 

May  be  forbid  from  coming  there. 
King  Solomon  a  goodly  place 

With  trees  of  Lebanon  did  rear, 
Each  pillar  of  it  silver  was, 

And  gold  the  bases  of  them  were. 

With  purple  covered  he  the  same, 

And  all  the  pavement,  throughout, 

Oh  !  daughters  of  Jerusalem, 

For  you  with  charity  is  wrought. 


118  GEORGE    WITHER. 


Come,  Sion's  daughters  !  come  away, 
And  crowned  with  his  diadem, 

King  Solomon  behold  you  may. 

That  crown  his  mother  set  on  him, 

When  he  a  married  man  was  made, 

And  in  his  heart  contentment  had. 

FROM  A  POEM  ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HIS  MARRIAGE  DAY. 

LORD,  living  here  are  we 

As  fast  united  yet, 
As  when  our  hands  and  hearts  by  Thee 

Together  first  were  knit. 
And  in  a  thankful  song 

Now  sing  we  will  Thy  praise, 
,       For  that  Thou  dost  as  well  prolong 

Our  loving,  as  our  days. 

The  frowardness  that  springs 

From  our  corrupted  kind, 
Or  from  those  troublous  outward  things, 

Which  may  distract  the  mind  ; 
Permit  not  thou,  0  Lord, 

Our  constant  love  to  shake  ; 
Or  to  disturb  our  true  accord. 

Or  make  our  hearts  to  ache. 

FROM    A    HYMN     FOR    A    WIDOWER. 

THE  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem 

Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key ; 
Those  eyes  which  unto  me  did  seem 

More  comfortable  than  the  day : 
Those  now  by  me,  as  they  have  been, 

Shall  never  more  be  heard  or  seen : 
But  what  I  once  enjoyed  in  them, 

Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a  dream. 


GEORGE    WITHER.  119 


PRAYER    FOR    HIS    WIFE    AND    CHILDREN,    WRITTEN    IN 
NEWGATE. 

THEREOF  be  therefore  heedful, 

Them  favor  not  the  less, 
Supply  with  all  things  needful 

In  this  our  great  distress. 

And  when  Thou  me  shalt  gather, 

Out  of  this  Land  of  Life, 
Be  Thou  my  children's  Father, 

A  Husband  to  my  wife. 

When  I  to  them  must  never 

Speak  more  with  tongue  or  pen, 

And  they  be  barred  forever 
To  see  my  face  again — 

Preserve  them  from  each  folly, 

Which,  ripening  into  sin, 
Makes  root  and  branch  unholy, 

And  brings  destruction  in. 

Let  not  this  world  bewitch  them 

With  her  besotting  wine, 
But  let  Thy  grace  enrich  them 

With  faith  and  love  divine. 

And  whilst  we  live  together, 

Let  us  upon  Thee  call, 
Help  to  prepare  each  other, 

For  what  may  yet  befal. : 

So  just,  so  faithful-hearted, 

So  constant  let  us  be, 
That  when  we  here  are  parted, 

We  may  all  meet  in  Thee. 


120  ROBERT    HERRICK. 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 

ROBERT  HERRICK  was  born  in  London,  in  1591.  He  was  educated 
at  Cambridge,  and  was  presented  by  Charles  the  First  to  the  vicar- 
age of  Dean  Prior,  in  Devonshire,  in  1629;  from  which,  during  the 
troubles  of  the  times,  he  was  ejected.  The  time  of  his  death  is  un- 
known. The  works  of  Herrick  do  not  offer  much  serious  poetry  for 
choice,  but  what  little  there  is  is  worth  preserving.  He  is  known  and 
admired  as  the  writer  of  gay  Anacreontic  songs,  for  which,  in  his  ripe 
age,  he  prayed  for  absolution  in  the  following  verses : 

FOR  these  my  unbaptized  rhymes, 
Writ  in  my  wild  unhallowed  times, 
For  every  sentence,  clause,  and  word, 
That's  not  inlaid  with  thee,  0  Lord, 
Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine  ; 
But  if  'mongst  all  thou  findest  one 
Worthy  thy  benediction, 
That  one  of  all  the  rest  shall  be 
The  glory  of  my  work,  and  me. 

LITANY      TO      THE      HOLY      SPIRIT. 

IN  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  at  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep  ; 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


ROBERT    HERRICK. 


When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  God  knows  I'm  tossed  about, 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tempter  me  pursueth 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed, 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed, 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appealed, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

TO     BLOSSOMS. 

FAIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 
Four  date  is  not  so  past, 
11 


122  ROBERT    HERRICK. 


But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Twas  pity  nature  brought  you  forth 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  ye  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 

Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

TO     DAFFODILS. 

FAIR  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  its  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  : 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you  ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring, 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you  or  any  thing : 
We  die 

As  your  hours  do  ;  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  summer-rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning-dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


FRANCIS    QUARLES.  123 


FRANCIS    QUARLES. 

I 

THIS  celebrated  poet  was  born  in  1592,  at  Stewards,  near  Romford, 
in  Essex,  and  after  receiving  a  degree  at  Cambridge,  in  1608,  he  went 
to  Lincoln's  Inn,  where  he  "  studied  the  laws  of  England,  not  so 
much,"  says  his  widow,  "  out  of  desire  to  benefit  himself  thereby,  as 
his  friends  and  neighbors,  and  to  compose  suits  and  differences  be- 
tween them."  He  was  introduced  at  court,  and  obtained  the  place  of 
Cupbearer  to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  after  quitting  whose  service  he 
went  to  Ireland,  as  Secretary  to  Archbishop  Usher.  On  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  rebellion  he  was  obliged  to  fly  to  England  for  safety. 
He  had  already  been  pensioned  by  Charles,  and  made  Chronologer  to 
the  city  of  London,  but  in  the  general  ruin  of  the  royal  cause  his  prop- 
erty was  confiscated,  and  his  books  and  manuscripts,  which  he  valued 
more,  were  plundered.  His  misfortunes  are  supposed  to  have  hasten- 
ed his  death,  which  occurred  in  1644. 

Mr.  Montgomery  says,  "  There  is  not  in  English  Literature  a  name 
more  wronged  than  that  of  Quarles, — wronged,  too,  by  those  who  , 
ought  best  to  have  discerned,  and  most  generously  acknowledged  his 
merits,  in  contradistinction  to  his  defects."  Quarles  certainly  was  a 
writer  of  great  learning,  lively  fancy,  and  profound  piety.  His  writings 
are  deformed  by  quaint  conceits,  but  his  beauties  abundantly  atone  for 
his  defects.  His  chief  works  are  "  Argalus  and  Parthenia,"  "  The 
Quintessence  of  Meditation,"  "  Sion's  Elegies,"  "  Emblems,"  "  Hiero- 
glyphics," «  The  Enchiridon,"  "  Divine  Fancies,"  and  "  The  Shepherd's 
Oracles." 

PRAYER    FOR    DIVINE    INSPIRATION. 

THOU  Alph#  and  Omega,  before  whom 

Things  past,  and  present,  and  things  yet  to  come, 

Are  all  alike  ;  0  prosper  my  designs, 

And  let  thy  spirit  enrich  my  feeble  lines. 

Revive  my  passion ;  let  mine  eye  behold 

Those  sorrows  present,  which  were  wept  of  old  ; 

Strike  sad  my  soul,  and  give  my  pen  the  art 

To  move,  and  me  an  understanding  heart. 

O,  let  the  accent  of  each  word  make  known, 

I  mix  the  tears  of  Sion  with  my  own  ! 


124  FRANCIS    aUARLES. 


THE      WORLD. 

SHE  is  empty  :  hark  !  she  sounds  :  there's  nothing  there  ; 

But  noise  to  fill  thy  ear  ; 
Thy  vain  inquiry  can  at  length  but  find 

A  blast  of  murmuring  wind  ; 
It  is  a  cask  that  seems  as  full  as  fair, 

But  merely  tunned  with  air. 
Fond  youth,  go  build  thy  hopes  on  better  grounds ; 

The  soul  that  vainly  founds 
Her  joys  upon  this  world,  but  feeds  on  empty  sounds. 

She  is  empty :  hark  !  she  sounds :  there's  nothing  in't ; 

The  spark-engendering  flint 
Shall  sooner  melt,  and  hardest  raunce1  shall  first 

Dissolve  and  quench  the  thirst, 
Ere  this  false  world  shall  still  thy  stormy  breast 

With  smooth-faced  alms  of  rest. 
Thou  mayst  as  well  expect  meridian  light 

From  shades  of  black-mouthed  Night, 
As  in  this  empty  world  to  find  a  full  delight. 

She  is  empty  :  hark  !  she  sounds  :  'tis  void  and  vast 

What  if  some  flattering  blast 
Of  flatuous  honor  should  perchance  be  there, 

And  whisper  in  thine  ear  ? 
It  is  but  wind,  and  blows  but  where  it  list, 

And  vanisheth  like  mist. 
Poor  honor  earth  can  give  !     What  generous  mind 

Would  be  so  base  to  bind 
Her  heaven-bred  soul,  a  slave  to  serve  a  blast  of  wind  ? 

She  is  empty  :  hark  !  she  sounds  :  'tis  but  a  ball 

For  fools  to  play  withal ; 
The  painted  film  but  of  a  stronger  bubble, 

That's  lined  with  silken  trouble. 

1 A  dry  crust 


FRANCIS    QUARLES.  125 


It  is  a  world  whose  work  and  recreation 

Is  vanity  and  vexation  ; 
A  hag,  repaired  with  vice-complexioned  paint, 

A  quest-house  of  complaint. 
It  is  a  saint,  a  fiend  ;  worse  fiend  when  most  a  saint. 

She  is  empty  :  hark !  she  sounds  :  'tis  vain  and  void. 

What's  here  to  be  enjoyed, 
But  grief  and  sickness,  and  large  bills  of  sorrow, 

Drawn  now  and  crossed  to-morrow  9 
Or,  what  are  men  but  puffs  of  dying  breath, 

Revived  with  living  death  ? 
Fond  youth,  0  build  thy  hopes  on  surer  grounds 

Than  what  dull  flesh  propounds  : 
Trust  not  this  hollow  world  ;  she  is  empty  :  hark !  she 
sounds. 


GLORYING      IN      THE      CROSS. 

CAN  nothing  settle  my  uncertain  breast, 

And  fix  my  rambling  love  ? 
Can  my  affections  find  out  nothing  best, 

But  still  and  still  remove  ? 
Has  earth  no  mercy  ?     Will  no  ark  of  rest 

Receive  my  restless  dove  ? 
Is  there  no  good  than  which  there's  nothing  higher 

To  bless  my  full  desire, 
With  joys  that  never  change  ;  with  joys  that  ne'er  expire  ? 

I  wanted  wealth,  and  at  my  dear  request, 

Earth  lent  a  quick  supply  ; 
i  wanted  mirth  to  charm  my  sullen  breast ; 

And  who  more  brisk  than  I  ? 
I  wanted  fame  to  glorify  the  rest ; 

My  fame  flew  eagle-high  ; 
My  joy  not  fully  ripe,  but  all  decayed, 

Wealth  vanished  like  a  shade  ; 
My  mirth  began  to  flag,  my  fame  began  to  fade. 
11* 


126  FRANCIS    aUARLES. 


My  trust  is  in  the  Cross  ;  there  lies  my  rest, 

My  fast,  my  sole  delight. 
Let  cold-mouthed  Boreas,  or  the  hot-mouthed  east, 

Blow  till  they  burst  with  spite  : 
Let  earth  and  hell  conspire  their  worst,  their  best, 

And  join  their  twisted  might ; 
Let  showers  of  thunderbolts  dart  round  and  wound  me, 

And  troops  of  fiends  surround  me  : 
All  this  may  well  confront ;  all  this  shall  ne'er  confound  me, 

'"  FALSE    WORLD,    THOU    LIEST." 

FALSE  world,  thou  liest :  thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  delight : 
Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

They  are  so  slight : 
Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night. 

Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  suppliest ; 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  thou  viest 
With  heaven  ;  fond  earth,  thou  boast'st ;  false  world, 
thou  liest. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endless  treasure  ; 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure. 
Thou  ask'st  the  conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear'st  to  ease  her. 
There's  none  can  want  where  thou  suppliest, 
There's  none  can  give  where  thou  deniest. 
Alas  !  fond  world,  thou  boast'st ;  false  world,  thou  liest. 

What  well-advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say  ? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay ; 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play. 


FRANCIS    aUARLES.  127 


Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  viest 

If  seen,  and  then  revied,  deniest — 

Thou  art  not^svhat  thou  seem'st ;  false  world,  thou  liest. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coined  treasure, 
A  paradise  that  has  no  stint, 

No  change,  no  measure ; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in't. 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure. 
Vain  earth  !  that  falsely  thus  compliest 
With  man  ;  vain  man  !  that  thou  reliest 
On  earth  ;  vain  man,  thou  dot'st ;  vain  earth,  thou  liest. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure, 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  dross  and  trash  ? 
The  height  of  whose  enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  flash  ?  , 

Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  suppliest 
Us  mortals  with  ?     Are  these  the  highest  ? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace  ?     False  world,  thou  liest. 

DELIGHT    IN    GOD    ONLY. 

I  LOVE  (and  have  some  cause  to  love)  the  earth, 

She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good  : 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 

She  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gives  me  food  : 
But  what's  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with  Thee  ? 
Or  what's  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air  ;  her  dainty  fruits  refresh 

My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me  ; 
Her  shrill-mouthed  choirs  sustain  me  with  their  flesh, 

And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me  ; 
But  what's  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  with  Thee  ? 


128  FRANCIS    aUAKLES. 


I  love  the  sea  ;  she  is  my  fellow- creature, 

My  careful  purveyor,  she  provides  me  store  ; 
She  walls  me  round  ;  she  makes  my  <4iet  greater ; 

She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  ; 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with  Thee, 
What  is  the  ocean  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 

Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye ; 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney, 

Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky ; 
But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  with  Thee  ? 
Without  thy  presence,  heaven's  no  heaven  to  me. 

Without  thy  presence,  earth  gives  no  refection  ; 

Without  thy  presence,  sea  affords  no  treasure ; 
Without  thy  presence,  air's  a  rank  infection ; 

Without  thy  presence,  heaven  itself  no  pleasure ; 
If  not  possessed,  if  not  enjoyed  in  Thee, 
What's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to  me  ? 

The  highest  honor  that  the  world  can  boast, 

Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire; 
Its  brightest  beams  of  glory  are  at  most 
But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire  ; 
The  proudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle,  be 
But  nightly  glow-worms  if  compared  with  Thee. 

Without  thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of  care ; 

Wisdom  but  folly  ;  joy,  disquiet  sadness ; 
Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares ; 

Pleasures  but  pain,  and  mirth  but  pleasing  madness. 
Without  Thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be, 
Nor  have  their  being  when  compared  with  Thee. 

In  having  all  things  and  not  Thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Not  having  Thee,  what  have  my  labors  got  ? 
Let  me  enjoy  but  Thee,  what  further  crave  I? 

And  having  Thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 


FRANCIS    aUARLES.  129 


I  wish  not  sea  nor  land ;  nor  would  I  be 
Possessed  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossessed  of  Thee. 


FLEEING    FROM    WRATH. 

O  WHITHER  shall  I  fly  ?  what  path  untrod 
Shall  I  seek  out  to  'scape  the  flaming  rod 
Of  my  offended,  of  my  angry  God  ? 

Where  shall  I  sojourn  ?     What  kind  sea  will  hide 
My  head  from  thunder  ?     Where  shall  I  abide 
Until  his  flames  be  quenched  or  laid  aside  ? 

What  if  my  feet  should  take  their  hasty  flight, 
And  seek  protection  in  the  shades  of  night  ? 
Alas  !  no  shades  can  blind  the  God  of  light. 

What  if  my  soul  should  take  the  wings  of  day 
And  find  some  desert  ?     If  she  springs  away, 
The  wings  of  vengeance  clip1  as  fast  as  they. 

What  if  some  solid  rock  should  entertain 
My  frighted  soul  ?  can  solid  rocks  restrain 
The  stroke  of  justice,  and  not  cleave  in  twain  ? 

Nor  sea,  nor  shade,  nor  rock,  nor  cave, 
Nor  silent  deserts,  nor  the  sullen  grave, 
What  flame-eyed  fury  means  to  smite,  can  save. 

The  seas  will  part,  graves  open,  rocks  will  split, 
The  shield  will  cleave,  the  frighted  shadows  flit ; 
Where  Justice  aims,  her  fiery  dart  must  hit. 

No,  no,  if  stern-browed  Vengeance  means  to  thunder, 
There  is  no  place  above,  beneath,  or  under, 
So  close  but  will  unlock,  or  rive  in  sunder. 


Fly. 


130  FRANCIS    aUARLES. 


'Tis  vain  to  flee  ;  'tis  neither  here  nor  there 
Can  'scape  that  hand,  until  that  hand  forbear : 
Ah  me !  where  is  He  not,  that's  everywhere  9 

'Tis  vain  to  flee,  till  gentle  Mercy  show 

Her  better  eye  ;  the  farther  off  we  go, 

The  swing  of  Justice  deals  the  mightier  blow. 

The  ingenuous  child,  corrected  doth  not  fly 

His  angry  mother's  hand  ;  but  climbs  more  nigh, 

And  quenches  with  his  tears  her  flaming  eye. 

Shadows  are  faithless,  and  the  rocks  are  false, 
No  trust  in  brass,  no  trust  in  marble  walls, 
Poor  cots  are  even  as  safe  as  princes'  halls. 

Great  God  !  there  is  no  safety  here  below  ; 

Thou  art  my  fortress,  Thou  that  seem'st  my  foe, 

'Tis  Thou,  that  strik'st  the  stroke,  must  guard  the  blow. 

Thou  art  my  God,  by  Thee  I  fall  or  stand  ; 
Thy  grace  hath  given  me  courage  to  withstand 
All  tortures  by  my  conscience  and  thy  hand. 

I  know  thy  justice  is  Thyself ;  I  know, 

Just  God,  thy  very  self  is  mercy  too  : 

If  not  to  Thee,  where,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 

Then  work  thy  will ;  if  passion  bid  me  flee, 
My  reason  shall  obey  ;  my  wings  shall  be 
Stretched  out  no  farther  than  from  Thee  to  Thee. 


THE     NEW     HEART. 

So  now  the  soul's  sublimed,  her  sour  desires 
Are  recalcined  in  heaven's  well-tempered  fires  °s 
The  heart  restored,  and  purged  from  drossy  nature, 
Now  finds  the  freedom  of  a  new-born  creature  ; 


FRANCIS  dUARLES.  131 


It  lives  another  life,  it  breathes  new  breath, 

It  neither  fears  nor  feels  the  sting  of  death. 

Like  as  the  idle  vagrant,  (having  none,) 

That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views  his  own, 

Makes  every  purse  his  chequer,  and  at  pleasure, 

Walks  forth  and  taxes  all  the  world  like  Caesar ; 

At  length,  by  virtue  of  a  just  command, 

His  sides  are  lent  to  a  severer  hand  ; 

Whereon  his  pass,  not  fully  understood, 

Is  taxed  in  a  manuscript  of  blood  ; 

Thus  passed  trom  town  to  town,  until  he  come, 

A  sore  repentant  to  his  native  home  : 

E'en  so  the  rambling  heart,  that  idly  roves 

From  crimes  to  sin,  and  uncontrolled,  removes 

From  lust  to  lust,  when  wanton  flesh  invites, 

From  old  worn  pleasures,  to  new  choice  delights. 

At  length,  corrected  by  the  filial  rod 

Of  his  offended,  and  his  gracious  God, 

And  lashed  from  sins  to  sighs,  and  by  degrees 

From  sighs  to  vows,  from  vows  to  bended  knees  ; 

From  bended  knees,  to  a  true  pensive  breast ; 

From  thence  to  torments,  not  by  tongues  expresed, 

Returns  ;  and  (from  his  sinful  self  exiled) 

Finds  a  glad  Father  ;  He,  a  welcome  child  : 

Oh  !  then  it  lives  !     Oh !  then  it  lives  involved 

In  secret  raptures ;  pants  to  be  dissolved  : 

The  royal  offspring  of  a  second  birth, 

Sets  ope  to  heaven,  and  shuts  the  door  to  earth. 

If  lovesick  Jove  commanded  clouds  should  hap 

To  rain  such  showers  as  quickened  Danae's  lap  ; 

Or  dogs  (far  kinder  than  their  purple  master) 

Should  lick  his  sores,  he  laughs  nor  weeps  the  faster. 

If  earth,  heaven's  rival,  dart  her  idle  ray, 

To  heaven  'tis  wax,  and  to  the  world  'tis  clay. 

If  earth  present  delights,  it  scorns  to  draw ; 

But  like  the  jet  unrubbed,  disdains  that  straw : 

No  hope  deceives  it,  and  no  doubt  divides  it, 

No  grief  disturbs  it,  and  no  error  guides  it, 


132  FIIANCIS  QUARLE8. 


No  good  contemns  it,  and  no  virtue  blames  it, 

No  guilt  condemns  it,  and  no  folly  shames  it, 

No  sloth  besots  it,  and  no  lust  enthrals  it, 

No  scorn  afflicts  it,  and  no  passion  galls  it ; 

It  is  a  carcanet1  of  immortal  life, 

An  ark  of  peace,  the  lists  of  sacred  strife, 

A  purer  piece  of  endless  transitory, 

A  shrine  of  grace,  a  little  throne  of  glory, 

A  heaven-born  offspring  of  a  new-born  birth, 

An  earthly  heaven,  an  ounce  of  heavenly  earth. 

THE     SHORTNESS     OF     LIFE. 

AND  what's  a  life  ?  a  weary  pilgrimage, 
Whose  glory  in  one  day  doth  fill  the  stage 
With  childhood,  manhood,  and  decrepit  age. 

And  what's  a  life  ?  the  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay. 

Read  on  this  dial,  how  the  shades  devour 

My  shortlived  winter's  day  ;  hour  eats  up  hour ; 

Alas,  the  total's  but  from  eight  to  four. 

Behold  these  lilies,  (which  thy  hands  have  made, 

Fair  copies  of  my  life,  and  open  laid 

To  view,)  how  soon  they  droop,  how  soon  they  fade ! 

Shade  not  that  dial,  night  will  blind  too  soon  ; 
My  non-aged  day  already  points  to  noon  ; 
How  simple  is  my  suit,  how  small  my  boon ! 

Nor  do  I  beg  this  slender  inch  to  wile 

The  time  away,  or  safely  to  beguile 

My  thoughts  with  joy  ;  here's  nothing  but  a  smile. 

1  A  necklace  or  collar  of  jewels. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES.  133 


THE     PILGRIM. 

THUS  I,  the  object  of  the  world's  disdain, 

With  pilgrim  face  surround  the  weary  earth  ; 
I  only  relish  what  the  world  counts  vain  ; 

Her  mirth's  my  grief,  her  sullen  grief  my  mirth  ; 
Her  light  my  darkness,  and  her  truth  my  error  ; 
Her  freedom  is  my  jail,  and  her  delight  my  terror. 

Fond  earth !  proportion  not  my  seeming  love 

To  my  long  stay  ;  let  not 'thy  thoughts  deceive  thee ; 
Thou  art  my  prison,  and  my  home's  above  ; 

My  life's  a  preparation  but  to  leave  thee. 
Like  one  that  seeks  a  door,  I  walk  about  thee  : 
With  thee  I  cannot  live  ;  I  cannot  live  without  thee. 

The  world's  a  labyrinth,  whose  anfractuous  ways 

Are  all  composed  of  rubs  and  crooked  meanders  ; 
No  resting  here  ;  he's  hurried  back,  that  stays 

Athought ;  and  he  that  goes  unguided,  wanders : 
Her  way  is  dark,  her  path  untrod,  uneven, 
So  hard's  the  way  from  earth,  so  hard's  the  way  to  heaven. 

This  gyring  labyrinth  is  betrenched  about, 

On  either  hand,  with  streams  of  sulphurous  fire, 
Streams  closely  sliding,  erring  in  and  out, 

But  seeming  pleasant  to  the  fond  deceiver  ; 
Where,  if  his  footsteps  trust  their  own  invention, 
He  falls  without  redress,  and  sinks  without  dimension. 

Where  shall  I  seek  a  guide  ?  where  shall  I  meet 

Some  lucky  hand  to  lead  my  trembling  paces  ? 
What  trusty  lantern  will  direct  my  feet 

To  'scape  the  danger  of  these  dangerous  places  ? 
What  hopes  have  I  to  pass  without  a  guide  ? 
Where  one  gets  safely  through,  a  thousand  fall  beside. 

An  unrequested  star  did  gently  slide 

Before  the  wise  men  to  a  greater  light ; 
12 


134  FRANCIS  QUARLES. 


Backsliding  Israel  found  a  double  guide, 

A  pillar  and  a  cloud — by  day,  by  night ; 
Yet  in  my  desperate  dangers,  which  be  far 
More  great  than  theirs,  I  have  no  pillar,  cloud,  nor  star. 

Oh  !  that  the  pinions  of  a  clipping  dove 

Would  cut  my  passage  through  the  empty  air ; 
Mine  eyes  being  sealed,  how  would  I  mount  above 

The  reach  of  danger  and  forgotten  care  ! 
My  backward  eyes  should  ne'er  commit  that  fault, 
Whose  lasting  guilt  should  build  a  monument  of  salt. 

Great  God  !  Thou  art  the  flowing  spring  of  light ; 

Enrich  mine  eyes  with  thy  refulgent  ray  : 
Thou  art  my  path  ;  direct  my  steps  aright, 

I  have  no  other  light,  no  other  way ; 
I'll  trust  my  God,  and  Him  alone  pursue  ; 
His  law  shall  be  my  path,  his  heavenly  light  my  clue. 


THE     LONG-SUFFERING     OF     GOD. 

EVEN  as  a  nurse,  whose  child's  imperfect  pace 
Can  hardly  lead  his  foot  from  place  to  place, 
Leaves  her  fond  kissing,  sets  him  down  to  go, 
Nor  does  uphold  him  for  a  step  or  two  : 
But  when  she  finds  that  he  begins  to  fall, 
She  holds  him  up,  and  kisses  him  withal ; — 
So  God  from  man  sometimes  withdraws  his  hand 
Awhile,  to  teach  his  infant  faith  to  stand, 
But  when  he  sees  his  feeble  strength  begin 
To  fail,  he  gently  takes  him  up  again. 


THE     LAST     TRUMPET. 

SEE  how  the  latter  trumpet's  dreadful  blast 
Affrights  stout  Mars  his  trembling  son ! 

See  how  he  startles,  how  he  stands  aghast, 
And  scrambles  from  his  melting  throne ! 


FRANCIS  aUARLES.  135 


Hark  how  the  direful  hand  of  vengeance  tears 
The  sweltering  clouds,  whilst  heaven  appears 
A  circle  filled  with  flame,  and  centered  with  his  fears. 


THE    BREVITY    OF    LIFE. 

BEHOLD, 

How  short  a  span 

Was  long  enough  of  old, 

To  measure  out  the  life  of  man ; 

In  those  well-tempered  days,  his  time  was  then 

Surveyed,  cast  up,  and  found  but  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Alas! 

And  what  is  that ! 

They  come,  and  slide,  and  pass, 

Before  my  pen  can  tell  thee  what ; 

The  posts  of  time  are  swift,  which,  having  run 

Their  seven  short  stages  o'er,  their  shortlived  task  is  done. 

Our  days 

Begun,  we  lend 

To  sleep,  to  antic  plays 

And  toys,  until  the  first  stage  end: 

Twelve  waning  moons,  twice  five  times  told,  we  give 

To    unrecovered    loss,    we    rather    breathe    than    live. 

We  spend 

A  ten  years'  breath 

Before    we    apprehend 

What  'tis  to  live,  or  fear  a  death  : 

Our  childish  dreams  are  filled  with  painted  joys, 

Which  please  our  sense  awhile,  and  waking  prove  but  toys. 

How  vain, 

How  wretched  is 

Poor  man,  that  doth  remain 

A  slave  to  such  a  state  as  this ! 

His  days  are  short  at  longest,  few  at  most : 

They  are  but  bad  at  best ;  yet  lavished  out,  or  lost. 


136 


FRANCIS    QUARLES. 


They  be 

The  secret  springs, 

That  make  our  minutes  flee 

On  wheels  more  swift  than  eagles'  wings : 

Our  life's  a  clock,  and  every  gasp  of  death 

Breathes  forth  a  warning  grief,  till  Time  shall  strike  a  death. 

How  soon 

Our  new-born  light 

Attains  to  full-aged  noon 

And  this,  how  soon,  to  gray-haired  night ! 

We  spring,  we  bud,  we  blossom,  and  we  blast, 

Ere  we  can  count  our  days,  our  days  they  flee  so  fast. 

They  end 

When  scarce  begun ; 

And    ere    we    apprehend 

That  we  begin  to  live,  our  life  is  done  : 

Man,  count  thy  days,  and  if  they  fly  too  fast 

For  thy  dull  thoughts  to  count,  count  every  day  thy  last. 

AGE. 

So  have  I  seen  the  illustrious  prince  of  light 
Rising  in  glory  from  his  crocean  bed, 

And  trampling  down  the  horrid  shades  of  night, 

Advancing  more  and  more  his  conquering  head ; 

Pause  first,  decline,  at  length  begin  to  shroud 

His  fainting  brows  within  a  coal-black  cloud. 

So  have  I  seen  a  well-built  castle  stand 

Upon  the  tiptoes  of  a  lofty  hill, 
Whose  active  power  commands  both  sea  and  land, 

And  curbs  the  pride  of  the  beleaguerer's  will : 
At  length  her  aged  foundation  fails  her  trust, 
And  lays  her  tottering  ruins  in  the  dust. 

So  have  I  seen  the  blazing  taper  shoot 
Her  golden  head  into  the  feeble  air  ; 


FRANCIS    QUARLES.  137 


Whose  shadow-gilding  ray,  spread  round  about, 

Makes  the  foul  face  of  black-browed  darkness  fair ; 
Till  at  the  length  her  wasting  glory  fades, 
And  leave  the  night  to  her  inveterate  shades. 

E'en  so  this  little  world  of  living  clay, 

The  pride  of  nature  glorified  by  art ; 
Whom  earth  adores,  and  all  her  hosts  obey, 

Allied  to  heaven  by  his  diviner  part ; 
Triumphs  awhile,  then  droops,  and  then  decays, 
And  worn  by  age,  death  cancels  all  his  days. 

That  glorious  sun,  that  whilome  shone  so  bright, 
Is  now  e'en  ravished  from  our  darkened  eyes  ; 

That  sturdy  castle,  manned  with  so  much  might, 
Lies  now  a  monument  of  her  own  disguise ; 

That  blazing  taper,  that  disdained  the  puff 

Of  troubled  air,  scarce  owns  the  name  of  snuff. 

Poor  bedrid  man !  where  is  that  glory  now, 

Thy  youth  so  vaunted  ?  where  that  majesty, 

Which  sat  enthroned  upon  thy  manly  brow  ? 

Where,  where  that  braving  arm  ?  that  daring  eye  ? 

Those  buxom  tunes  ?  those  bacchanalian  tones  ? 

Those  swelling  veins  ?  those  marrow-flaming  bones  ? 

Thy  drooping  glory's  blurred,  and  prostrate  lies, 
Grovelling  in  dust ;  and  frightful  horror  now 

Sharpens  the  glances  of  thy  gashful  eyes, 

Whilst  fear  perplexes  thy  distracted  brow ; 

Thy  panting  breast  vents  all  her  breath  by  groans, 

And  death  enerves  thy  marrow-wasted  bones. 

Thus  man  that's  born  of  woman  can  remain 

But  a  short  time  •  his  days  are  full  of  sorrow — 

His  life's  a  penance,  and  his  death's  a  pain  ! 

Springs  like  a  flower  to-day,  and  fades  to-morrow ! 

His  breath's  a  bubble,  and  his  day's  a  span : 

'Tis  glorious  miser}-  to  be  born  a  man  ! 


138  FRANCIS    aUARLES. 


VAIN      BOASTING. 

CAN  he  be  fair,  that  withers  at  a  blast  ? 
Or  he  be  strong,  that  airy  breath  becast  ? 
Can  he  be  wise,  that  knows  not  how  to  live  ? 
Or  he  be  rich,  that  nothing  hath  to  give  ? 
Can  he  be  young,  that's  feeble,  weak,  and  wan  ? 
So  fair,  strong,  wise, — so  rich,  so  young,  is  man. 
So  fair  is  man,  that  death  (a  parting  blast) 
Blasts  his  fair  flower,  and  makes  him  earth  at  last ; 
So  strong  is  man,  that  with  a  gasping  breath 
He  totters  and  bequeaths  his  strength  to  death ; 
So  wise  is  man,  that  if  with  death  he  strive, 
His  wisdom  cannot  teach  him  how  to  live  ; 
So  rich  is  man,  that  (all  his  debts  being  paid) 
His  wealth's  the  winding-sheet  wherein  he's  laid ; 
So  young  is  man,  that  (broke  with  care  and  sorrow) 
He's  old  enough  to-day  to  die  to-morrow. 
Why  bragg'st  thou  then,  thou  worm  of  five  foot  long  ? 
Thou'rt  neither  fair,  nor  strong,  nor  wise,  nor  rich,  nor 
young. 


FAREWELL      THOSE      EYES. 
FROM    ELEGIES    ON    DR.    AYLMER. 

FAREWELL  those  eyes,  whose  gentle  smiles  forsook 
No  misery,  taught  Charity  how  to  look. 
Farewell  those  cheerful  eyes,  that  did  erewhile 
Teach  succored  Misery  how  to  bless  a  smile  : 
Farewell  those  eyes,  whose  mixed  aspect  of  late 
Did  reconcile  humility  and  state. 
Farewell  those  eyes,  that  to  their  joyful  guest 
Proclaimed  their  ordinary  fare,  a  feast. 
Farewell  those  eyes,  the  loadstars  late  whereby 
The  graces  sailed  secure  from  eye  to  eye. 
Farewell,  dear  eyes,  bright  lamps — 0  who  can  tell 
Your  glorious  welcome,  or  our  sad  farewell ! 


199 


pure  froiil  dn 

' 


140  FRANCIS    aUARLES. 


MERCY     TEMPERING     JUSTICE. 

HAD  not  the  milder  hand  of  Mercy  broke 
The  furious  violence  of  that  fatal  stroke 
Offended  Justice  struck,  we  had  been  quite 
Lost  in  the  shadows  of  eternal  night. 
Thy  mercy,  Lord,  is  like  the  morning  sun, 
Whose  beams  undo  what  sable  night  hath  done ; 
Or  like  a  stream,  the  current  of  whose  course, 
Restrained  awhile,  runs  with  a  swifter  force. 
Oh  !  let  me  glow  beneath  those  sacred  beams, 
And  after  bathe  me  in  those  silver  streams ; 
To  Thee  alone  my  sorrows  shall  appeal : 
Hath  earth  a  wound  too  hard  for  heaven  to  heal  ? 


HOPE    IN    GOD. 

IN  thee,  dear  Lord,  my  pensive  soul  respires, 
Thou  art  the  fulness  of  my  choice  desires ; 
Thou  art  that  sacred  spring,  whose  waters  burst 
In  streams  to  him  that  seeks  with  holy  thirst. 
Thrice  happy  man,  thrice  happy  thirst,  to  bring 
Thy  fainting  soul  to  so,  so  sweet  a  spring ; 
Thrice  happy  he,  whose  well-resolved  breast 
Expects  no  other  aid,  no  other  rest ; 
Thrice  happy  he,  whose  downy  age  has  been 
Reclaimed  by  scourges  from  the  pride  of  sin, 
And  early  seasoned  with  the  taste  of  truth, 
Remembers  his  Creator  in  his  youth. 


DECAY     OF     LIFE. 

THE  day  grows  old,  the  low-pitched  lamp  hath  made 

'No  less  than  treble  shade, 
And  the  descending  damp  doth  now  prepare 

T'  uncurl  bright  Titan's  hair  ; 


FRANCIS    QUARLES.  141 


Whose  western  wardrobe  now  begins  to  unfold 

Her  purples  fringed  with  gold, 
To  clothe  his  evening  glory,  when  th'  alarms 
Of  rest  shall  call  to  rest  in  Thetis'  arms. 

Nature  now  calls  to  supper,  to  refresh 

The  spirits  of  all  flesh. 
The  toiling  ploughman  drives  his  thirsty  teams 

To  taste  the  slippery  streams ; 
The  droyling  swineherd  knocks  away,  and  feasts 

His  hungry  whining  guests  ; 
The  box-bill  ouzel,  and  the  dappled  thrush, 
Like  hungry  rivals  meet  at  their  beloved  bush. 

And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  every  green ; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowans  doth  appear 

The  fast-declining  year ; 
The  sapless  branches  doff  their  summer-suits, 

And  wain  their  winter-fruits  ; 
And  stormy  blasts  have  forced  the  quaking  trees 
To  wrap  their  trembling  limbs  in  suits  of  mossy  frieze. 

Our  wasted  taper  now  hath  brought  her  light 

To  the  next  door  to  night ; 
Her  sprightless  flame,  grown  great  with  snuff,  doth  turn 

Sad  as  her  neighboring  urn ; 
Her  slender  inch,  that  yet  unspent  remains, 

Lights  but  to  further  pains  ; 
And  in  a  silent  language  bids  her  guest 
Prepare  his  weary  limbs  to  take  eternal  rest. 

Now  careful  age  hath  pitched  her  painful  plough 

Upon  the  furrowed  brow  ; 
And  snowy  blasts  of  discontented  care 

Have  blanched  the  falling  hair ; 
Suspicious  envy,  mixed  with  jealous  spite, 

Disturbs  his  weary  night ; 


142  FRANCIS    UUARLE3. 


He  threatens  youth  with  age  ;  and  now,  alas  ! 

He  owns  not  what  he  is,  but  vaunts  the  man  he  was. 

Gray  hairs,  peruse  thy  days,  and  let  thy  past 

Read  lectures  to  thy  last : 
Those  hasty  wings  that  hurried  them  away, 

Will  give  these  days  no  day ; 
The  constant  wheels  of  nature  scorn  to  tire, 

Until  her  works  expire  : 

That  blast  that  nipped  thy  youth  will  ruin  thee, 
That  hand  that  shook  the  branch  will  quickly  strike  the 

tree. 


THE     MARTYR     RIDLEY. 

READ  in  the  progress  of  this  blessed  story 

Rome's  cursed  cruelty  and  Ridley's  glory : 

Rome's  sirens'  song ;  but  Ridley's  careless  ear 

Was  deaf:  they  charmed,  but  Ridley  would  not  hear. 

Rome  sung  preferment,  but  brave  Ridley's  tongue 

Condemned  that  false  preferment  which  Rome  sung. 

Rome  whispered  wealth ;  but  Ridley  (whose  great  gain 

Was  godliness)  he  waved  it  with  disdain. 

Rome  threatened  durance  ;  but  great  Ridley's  mind 

Was  too,  too  strong  for  threats  or  chains  to  bind. 

Rome  thundered  death ;  but  Ridley's  dauntless  eye 

Stared  in  Death's  face,  and  scorned  Death  standing  by : 

In  spite  of  Rome,  for  England's  faith  he  stood, 

And  in  the  flames  he  sealed  it  with  his  blood. 


THOMAS    HEYWOOD.  143 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD  was  one  of  the  most  prolific  and  one  of  the  most 
poetical  of  the  English  dramatists.  He  was  the  author  also  of  "  The 
Hierarchies  of  the  Blessed  Angels  ;"  a  work  i  ude  in  metre,  yet  abound- 
ing with  powerful  and  even  sublime  passages,  published  in  1635.  HP 
died  in  1649. 

SEARCH     AFTER     GOD. 

I  SOUGHT  Thee  round  about,  O  Thou,  my  God  ! 

In  thine  abode. 
I  said  unto  the  Earth,  "  Speak,  art  thou  He  ?" 

She  answered  me, 
"  I  am  not." — I  inquired  of  creatures  all 

In  general 

Contained  therein  ; — they  with  one  voice  proclaim 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a  name. 

I  asked  the  seas,  and  all  the  deeps  below, 

My  God  to  know  : 
I  asked  the  reptiles,  and  whatever  is 

In  the  abyss — 
Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviathan, 

Inquiry  ran ; 

But  in  those  deserts,  which  no  line  can  sound, 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  asked  the  air  if  that  were  He  ?  but 

It  told  me  "  No." 
I,  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren, 

Demanded  then 
If  any  feathered  fowl  'mongst  them  were  such  ? 

But  they  all,  much 

Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  quire 
Answered — "  To  find  thy  God  thou  must  look  higher." 


144  THOMAS    HEYWOOD. 


I  asked  the  heavens,  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  but  they 

Said,  -We  obey 
The  God  thou  seek'st." — I  asked,  what  eye  or  ear 

Could  see  or  hear  ; 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or  know, 

Above,  below : 

With  an  unanimous  voice  all  these  things  said, 
"  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  Him  were  made." 

I  asked  the  world's  great  universal  mass, 

If  that  God  was  ; 
Which,  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice,  replied, 

As  stupified, 
"  I  am  not  He,  0  man  !  for  know  that  I 

By  Him  on  high, 

Was  fashioned  first  of  nothing,  thus  instated 
And  swayed  by  Him,  by  whom  I  was  created." 

I  sought  the  court ;  but  smooth-tongued  flattery  there 

Deceived  each  ear ; 
In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling,  buying, 

Swearing  and  lying  ; 
I'  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  arrayed  : 

And  then  I  said, 

"  Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains  be  great, 
Where  my  God  is,  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I  then, 

Even  thus  began : 
"  0  man,  what  art  thou  ?" — What  more  could  I  say 

Than,  Dust  and  clay  ? 
Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a  mere  puff,  a  blast, 

That  cannot  last ; 

Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urn  ; 
Formed  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must  return. 

I  asked  myself  what  this  great  God  might  be 

That  fashioned  me  ? 
I  answered — The  all-potent,  solely  immense, 

Surpassing  sense ; 


THOMAS    HEYWOOD.  I4d 


Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal — 

Lord  over  all. 

The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true, 
Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  He  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being  ;  He  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  water, 
Earth,  air,  and  fire.     Of  all  things  that  subsist 

He  hath  the  list ; 

Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claims, 
He  keeps  the  scroll,  and  calls  them  by  their  names. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illuming  grace, 

Thy  glorious  face, 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be,) 

Methinks  I  see  ; 
And,  though  invisible  and  infinite, 

To  human  sight, 

Thou  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appearest ; 
In  which  to  our  weak  senses  Thou  comest  nearest. 

Oh  !  make  us  apt  to  seek,  and  quick  to  find, 

Thou  God  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith,  in  Thee  to  trust, 

Thou  God  most  just ! 
Remit  all  our  offences  we  entreat, 

Most  Good,  most  Great ! 

Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy  quest, 
May  through  thy  grace  admit  us  'mongst  the  blest. 
13 


146  RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

WAS  born  in  London,  but  the  year  of  his  birth  is  uncertain.  He 
was  educated  at  the  Charter  House,  and  at  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge, 
and  was  afterwards,  in  1637,  fellow  of  Peter  House,  but  was  ejected 
during  the  rebellion  for  denying  the  covenant,  and  soon  afterwards  was 
converted,  or  as  Pope  says,  "  outwitted,"  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith. 
He  went  to  Paris  in  search  of  preferment ;  but  his  distresses  and 
poverty  became  very  great,  till  the  benevolence  of  Cowley  relieved  him. 
He  then  went  to  Italy,  became  secretary  to  a  cardinal,  obtained  a  can- 
onry  in  the  church  of  Loretto,  and  died  in  1650.  He  wrote  "  Epigra- 
mata  Sacra  ;"  "  Steps  to  the  Temple  ;"  "  The  Delights  of  the  Muses ;" 
"  Carmen  Deo  Nostro,"  &c.  The  last  edition  of  his  works  was  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1785. 

The  Poems  of  Crashaw  display  delicate  fancy,  great  tenderness,  and 
singular  beauty  of  diction.  Coleridge  considered  his  verses  "On  a 
Prayer-Book,"  one  of  the  greatest  poems  in  the  language.  Pope  de- 
clares his  version  of  the  "  Dies  Irae,"  the  best  of  his  compositions. 

A      HYMN. 

DIES    IRM,   DIES    ILLA. 
IN    MEDITATION    OF   THE   DAY   OF   JUDGMENT. 

HEAR'ST  them,  my  soul,  what  serious  things 
Both  the  Psalm  and  Sibyl  sings, 
Of  a  sure  Judge,  from  whose  sharp  ray 
The  world  in  flames  shall  pass  away  ? 

0  that  fire  !  befor3  whose  face, 
Heaven  and  Earth  shall  find  no  place  • 
0  those  eyes  !  whose  angry  light 
Must  be  the  day  of  that  dread  night. 

O  that  trump !  whose  blast  shall  run 
An  even  round  with  th'  circling  sun, 
And  urge  the  murmuring  graves  to  bring 
Pale  mankind  forth  to  meet  his  King. 


RICHARD    CKASIl.UV.  147 


Horror  of  nature,  hell  and  death  ! 
When  a  deep  groan  from  beneath 
Shall  cry,  "  We  come  !  we  come !"  and  all 
The  caves  of  night  answer  one  call. 

O  that  book  !  whose  leaves  so  bright, 
Will  set  the  world  in  severe  light : 
O  that  Judge  !  whose  hand,  whose  eye, 
None  can  endure — yet  none  can  fly. 

Ah !  thou  poor  soul,  what  wilt  thou  say  ? 
And  to  what  patron  choose  to  pray  ? 
When  stars  themselves  shall  stagger,  and 
The  most  firm  foot  no  more  than  stand. 

But  thou  givest  leave,  dread  Lord,  that  we 
Take  shelter  from  Thyself  in  Thee  ; 
And,  with  the  wings  of  thine  own  dove, 
Fly  to  the  sceptre  of  soft  love. 

Dear  Lord,  remember  in  that  day 
Who  was  the  cause  Thou  earnest  this  way : 
Thy  sheep  was  strayed,  and  Thou  wouldst  be 
Even  lost  Thyself  in  seeking  me. 

Shall  all  that  labor,  all  that  cost 
Of  love,  and  even  that  loss,  be  lost  ? 
And  this  loved  soul,  judged  worth  no  less 
Than  all  that  way  and  weariness  ? 

Just  mercy,  then,  thy  reckoning  be 
With  my  price,  and  not  with  me ; 
'Twas  paid  at  first  with  too  much  pain, 
To  be  paid  twice,  or  once  in  vain. 

Mercy,  my  Judge,  mercy  I  cry, 
With  blushing  cheek,  and  bleeding  eye : 
The  conscious  colors  of  my  sin, 
Are  red  without,  and  pale  within. 


148  RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


Oh !  let  thine  own  soft  bowels  pay 
Thyself,  and  so  discharge  that  day ; 
If  sin  can  sigh,  love  can  forgive : — 
Oh !  say  the  word,  my  soul  shall  live. 

Those  mercies  which  thy  Mary  found, 
Or  who  thy  cross  confessed  and  crowned, 
Hope  tells  my  heart  the  same  loves  be 
Still  alive,  and  still  for  me. 

Though  both  my  prayers  and  tears  combine, 
Both  worthless  are ;  for  they  are  mine  : 
But  Thou  thy  bounteous  self  still  be, 
And  show  thou  art  by  saving  me. 

Oh  !  when  thy  last  frown  shall  proclaim 
The  flocks  of  goats  to  folds  of  flame, 
And  all  thy  lost  sheep  found  shall  be, 
Let,  "  Come,  ye  blessed,"  then  call  me. 

When  the  dread  "  Ite"1  shall  divide 
Those  limbs  of  death  from  thy  left  side, 
Let  those  life-speaking  lips  command 
That  I  inherit  thy  right  hand. 

Oh  !  hear  a  suppliant  heart,  all  crushed 
And  crumbled  into  contrite  dust ; 
My  hope !  my  fear !  my  Judge  !  my  friend  ! 
Take  charge  of  me,  and  of  my  end. 

CHORUS    OF    THE    SHEPHERDS    OF    BETHLEHEM. 

WELCOME  !  all  wonders  in  one  sight, 

Eternity  shut  in  a  span  ; 
Summer  in  winter,  day  in  night, 

Heaven  in  Earth,  and  God  in  Man. 
Great  Little  One,  whose  all-embracing  birth 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven,  stoops  heaven  to  earth. 

1  "  Depart  thou." 


RICHARD    CRASHAW.  149 


Welcome !  though  not  to  gold  nor  silk, 
To  more  than  Caesar's  birthright  is ; 

Two  sister-seas  of  virgin-milk, 

With  many  a  rarely  tempered  kiss, 

That  breathes  at  once  both  maid  and  mother, 

Warms  in  the  one,  cools  in  the  other. 

She  sings  thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 
Her  kisses  in  thy  weeping  eye ; 

She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  thy  lips, 
That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie  ; 

She  'gainst  those  mother-diamonds  tries 

The  points  of  her  young  eagle  eyes. 

Welcome  !  though  not  to  these  gay  flies, 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings ; 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes, 

But  to  poor  shepherds'  homespun  things ; 

Whose  wealth's  their  flock,  whose  wit  to  be 

Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet  when  young  April's  husband-showers 
Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed, 

We'll  bring  the  firstfruits  of  her  flowers, 
To  kiss  thy  feet,  and  crown  thy  head  : 

To  Thee,  dread  Lamb !  whose  love  must  keep 

The  shepherds  more  than  they  their  sheep. 

To  Thee,  meek  Majesty !  soft  King 

Of  simple  graces,  and  sweet  loves, 

Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring, 
Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves  ; 

Till  burnt  at  last  in  fire  of  thy  fair  eyes, 

Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice. 

THE     MARTYRS. 

OH  !  that  it  were  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 

When  thy  old  friends  of  fire,  all  full  of  Thee, 
Fought  against  frowns  with  smiles !  gave  glorious  chase 
13* 


150  RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


To  persecutions,  and  against  the  face 

Of  death  and  fiercest  dangers  durst,  with  brave 

And  sober  pace,  march  on  to  meet  a  grave. 

On  their  bold  breasts  about  the  world  they  bore  Thee, 

And  to  the  teeth  of  hell  stood  up  to  teach  Thee ; 
In  centre  of  their  inmost  souls  they  wore  Thee, 

Where  racks  and  torments  strived  in  vain  to  reach  Thee. 
Each  wound  of  theirs  was  thy  new  morning, 

And  reinthroned  Thee  in  thy  rosy  nest, 
With  blush  of  thine  own  blood  thy  day  adorning : 
It  was  the  wit  of  love  o'erflowed  the  bounds 
Of  wrath,  and  made  the  way  through  all  these  wounds. 

Welcome,  dear,  all-adored  name ! 
For  sure  there  is  no  knee 
That  knows  not  Thee ; 

Or,  if  there  be  such  sons  of  shame, 
Alas  !  what  will  they  do, 
When  stubborn  rocks  shall  bow, 
And  hills  hang  down  their  heaven-saluting  heads, 
To  seek  for  humble  beds 

Of  dust,  where,  in  the  bashful  shades  of  night, 
Next  to  their  own  low  nothing  they  may  lie, 
And  couch  before  the  dazzling  light  of  thy  dread  Majesty  ? 
They  that  by  love's  mild  dictate  now 

Will  not  adore  Thee, 
Shall  then  with  just  confusion  bow, 

And  break  before  Thee. 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK  SENT  TO  MRS.  R. 

Lo  !  here  a  little  volume,  but  great  book, 

(Fear  it  not,  sweet, 

It  is  no  hypocrite,) 
Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look. 
It  is  in  one  rich  handful  heaven  and  all — 
Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamped  thus  small ; 
To  prove  that  true,  schools  used  to  tell, 
A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 


RICHARD    CRASHAW.  151 


It  is  love's  great  artillery, 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to  lie 

Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom,  and  from  thence, 

As  from  a  snowy  fortress  of  defence, 

Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your  part, 

And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 

It  is  the  armory  of  light ; 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You'll  find  it  yields 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts 

More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares  or  hell  hath  darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 

Those  of  turtles,  chaste  and  true, 
Wakeful  and  wise, 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  you. 
Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart, 
Set  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 
But  oh  !  the  heart 
That  studies  this  high  art 
Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper, 
And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong, 

Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 
And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings — 

Flowers  of  never-fading  graces, 
To  make  immortal  dressings, 

For  worthy  souls  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The  spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  virgin's  Son. 

But  if  the  noble  Bridegroom,  when  he  come, 
Shall  find  the  wandering  heart  from  home, 

Leaving  her  chaste  abode 

To  gad  abroad 


152  RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


Amongst  the  gay  mates  of  the  god  of  flies  ;l 

To  take  her  pleasure  and  to  play, 

And  keep  the  devil's  holiday  ; 

To  dance  in  the  sunshine  of  some  smiling 

But  beguiling 
Sphere  of  sweet  and  sugared  lies  ; 

Some  slippery  pair 

Of  false,  perhaps  as  fair, 
Flattering,  but  forswearing  eyes  ; — 

Doubtless  some  other  heart 

Will  get  the  start, 

And,  slipping  in  before, 

Will  take  possession  of  the  sacred  store 
Of  hidden  sweets  and  holy  joys — 

Words  which  are  not  heard  with  ears, 
(These  tumultuous  shops  of  noise,) 

Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears  ; 

Amorous  languishments,  luminous  trances, 
Sights  which  are  not  seen  with  eyes, 

Spiritual  and  soul-piercing  glances, 
Whose  pure  and  subtle  lightning  flies 

Home  to  the  heart,  and  sets  the  house  on  fire, 

And  melts  it  down  in  sweet  desire. 

Yet  doth  not  stay 

To  ask  the  window's  leave  to  pass  that  way ; 

Delicious  death,  soft  exhalations 

Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations  ; 

A  thousand  unknown  rites 

Of  joys  and  rarefied  delights  ; 

And  many  a  mystic  thing, 

Which  the  divine  embraces 

Of  the  dear  Spouse  of  spirits  with  them  will  bring ; 

For  which  it  is  no  shame 

That  dull  morality  must  not  know  a  name. 

1  Beelzebub. 


RICHARD    CRASHAW.  153 

Of  all  this  hidden  store 

Of  blessings,  and  ten  thousand  more, 

If  when  He  come, 

He  find  the  heart  from  home, 

Doubtless  he  will  unload 
Himself  some  other  where  ; 

And  pour  abroad 
His  precious  sweets 
On  the  fair  soul  whom  first  he  meets. 

0  fair  !  0  fortunate  !  0  rich  !  0  dear  ! 

O  !  happy  and  thrice  happy  she, 
Dear  silver-breasted  dove, 

Whoe'er  she  be, 
Whose  early  love 
With  winged  vows 

Makes  haste  to  meet  her  morning  spouse, 
And  close  with  his  immortal  kisses  ! 
Happy  soul !  who  never  misses 

To  improve  that  precious  hour  ; 
And  every  day 
Seize  her  sweet  prey, 
All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  he  rises, 

Dropping  with  a  balmy  shower, 
A  delicious  dew  of  spices. 
Oh  !  let  that  happy  soul  hold  fast 
Her  heavenly  armful :  she  shall  taste 

At  once  ten  thousand  paradises : 
She  shall  have  power 
To  rifle  and  deflower 

The  rich  and  roseal  spring  of  those  rare  sweets, 
Which  with  a  swelling  bosom  there  she  meets, 
Boundless  and  infinite,  bottomless  treasures 
Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures. 
Happy  soul !  she  shall  discover 

What  joy,  what  bliss, 

How  many  heavens  at  once  it  is 
To  have  a  God  become  her  lover. 


154  PATRICK    CAREY. 


PATRICK  CAREY. 

BUT  little  is  known  of  Carey,  except  that  he  was  of  the  established 
church  and  a  loyalist.  His  poems,  some  of  which  possess  great  merit, 
were  first  printed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  from  a  MS.  dated  1651. 

CHRIST  IN  THE  CRADLE,  IN  THE  GARDEN,  AND  IN  HIS 
PASSION. 

LOOK,  how  He  shakes  for  cold ! 

How  pale  his  lips  are  grown  ! 
Wherein  his  limbs  to  fold,  * 

Yet  mantle  has  He  none. 
His  pretty  feet  and  hands 
(Of  late  more  pure  and  white 

Than  is  the  snow 

That  pains  them  so) 
Have  lost  their  candor1  quite. 

His  lips  are  blue, 

(Where  roses  grew,) 
He's  frozen  everywhere : 

All  the  heat  He  has, 

Joseph,  alas  ! 
Gives  in  a  groan,  or  Mary  m  a  tear. 

Look !  how  He  glows  for  heat ! 

What  flames  come  from  his  eyes  ! 
'Tis  blood  that  He  doth  sweat, 

Blood  his  bright  forehead  dyes. 
See,  see  !  it  trickles  down, 
Look,  how  it  showers  amain  ! 

Through  every  pore 

His  blood  runs  o'er, 
And  empty  leaves  each  vein. 

1  Whiteness. 


PATRICK  CAREY.  155 


His  very  heart 

Burns  in  each  part, 
A  fire  his  breast  doth  sear ; 

For  all  this  flame 

To  cool  the  same, 
He  only  breathes  a  sigh,  and  weeps  a  tear. 

What  bruises  do  I  see  ! 

What  hideous  stripes  are  those ! 
Could  any  cruel  be 

Enough  to  give  such  blows  ? 
Look,  how  they  bind  his  arms, 
And  vex  his  soul"  with  scorns ! 

Upon  his  hair 

They  make  Him  wear 
A  crown  of  piercing  thorns. 

Through  hands  and  feet, 

Sharp  nails  they  beat. 
And  now  the  cross  they  rear  ; 

Mary  looks  on, 

But  only  John 
Stands  by  to  sigh,  Mary  to  shed  a  tear. 

Why  did  He  quake  for  cold  ? 

Why  did  He  glow  for  heat  ? 
Dissolve  that  first  He  could, 

He  could  call  back  that  sweat. 
Those  bruises,  stripes,  bonds,  taunts, 
Those  thorns  which  thou  didst  see, 

Those  nails,  that  cross, 

His  own  life's  loss — 
Why,  oh  !  why  suffered  He  ? 

'Twas  for  thy  sake : — 

Thou,  thou  didst  make 
Him  all  those  torments  bear : 

If  then^his  love 

Do  thy  soul  move, 
Sigh  out  a  groan,  weep  down  a  melting  tear. 


156  WILLIAM    HABINGTON. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

THIS  amiable  man  and  pleasing  poet  was  born  at  Hendlip,  in  Wor- 
cestershire, in  1605.  His  family  being  Catholics,  he  was  educated  at 
St.  Omer's,  and  afterwards  at  Paris.  At  an  early  age  he  married 
Lucia,  daughter  of  William  Herbert,  first  Lord  Powis ;  this  lady  was 
the  Castara  of  his  poems.  He  died  in  1654.  The  poems  of  Habing- 
ton  were  introduced  for  the  first  time  in  a  general  collection,  by  Mr. 
Chalmers.  "  The  great  charm  of  these  poems,"  says  Mr.  Wilmot,  "  is 
their  purity,  and  domestic  tenderness :  the  religion  of  his  fancy  is 
never  betrayed  into  any  unbecoming  mirth,  or  rapturous  enthusiasm. 
He  is  always  amiable,  simple,  and  unaffected ;  if  he  has  not  the  inge- 
nuity of  some  of  his  rivals,  he  is  also  free  from  their  conceits." 

LAUDATE    DOMINUM    DE    CCELIS. — DAVID. 

You  Spirits  !  who  have  thrown  away 
That  envious  weight  of  clay, 

Which  your  celestial  flight  denied ; 
Who  by  your  glorious  troops  supply 
The  winged  hierarchy, 

So  broken  in  the  angel's  pride  ! 

0  you !  whom  your  Creator's  sight 
Inebriates  with  delight ! 

Sing  forth  the  triumphs  of  his  name  : 
All  you  enamored  souls,  agree 
In  a  loud  symphony, 

To  give  expression  to  your  flame ! 

To  Him  his  own  great  works  relate, 
Who  deigned  to  elevate 

You  'bove  the  frailty  of  your  birth, 
Where  you  stand  safe  from  that  rude  war 
With  which  we  troubled  are, 

By  the  rebellion  of  our  earth. 


WILLIAM    HABINGTON.  157 

While  a  corrupted  air  beneath 
Here  in  this  world  we  breathe, 

Each  hour  some  passion  us  assails. 
Now  lust  easts  wildfire  in  the  blood, 
Or,  that  it  may  seem  good, 

Itself  in  wit  or  beauty  veils. 

Then  envy  circles  us  with  hate, 
And  lays  a  siege  so  strait, 

No  heavenly  succor  enters  in : 
But  if  revenge  admittance  find 
Forever  hath  the  mind 

Made  forfeit  of  itself  to  sin. 

Assaulted  thus,  how  dare  we  raise 
Our  minds  to  think  his  praise, 

Who  is  eternal  and  immense  ? 
How  dare  we  force  our  feeble  wit 
To  speak  him  infinite, 

So  far  above  the  search  of  sense  ? 

O  you !  who  are  immaculate, 
His  name  may  celebrate 

In  your  soul's  bright  expansion : 
You,  whom  your  virtues  did  unite 
To  his  perpetual  light, 

That  ever  with  Him  you  now  shine  one. 

While  we  who  to  earth  contract  our  hearts, 
And  only  study  arts 

To  shorten  the  sad  length  of  time, 
In  place  of  joys,  bring  humble  fears, 
For  hymns,  repentant  tears, 

And  a  new  sigh,  for  every  crime. 

NOX  NOCTI  INDICAT  SCIENTIAM. — DAVID 

WHEN  I  survey  the  bright 

Celestial  sphere, 
So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 

Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear, 
14 


158  WILLIAM    HABINGTON. 


My  soul  her  wings  dotli  spread, 

And  heavenward  flies, 
Th*  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 

In  the  large  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 

Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 

In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 

Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

But,  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 

How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn, 

It  tells  the  conqueror, 

That  far-stretched  power, 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 

Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour. 

That  from  the  farthest  north 

Some  nations  may, 
Yet  undiscovered,  issue  forth, 

And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway. 

Some  nation,  yet  shut  in 

With  hills  of  ice, 
May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 

Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 

Their  ruin  have  ; 
For,  as  yourselves,  your  empires  fall, 

And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 


WILLIAM    HABINGTON.  159 


Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires, 

And  all  the  pride  of  life,  confute. 

For  they  have  watched  since  first 

The  world  had  birth, 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 

And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 


NON  NOBIS  DOMINE. — DAVID. 

No  marble  statue,  nor  high 

Aspiring  pyramid  be  raised 
To  lose  its  head  within  the  sky ! 
What  claim  have  I  to  memory  ? 

God,  be  thou  only  praised ! 

Thou  in  a  moment  canst  defeat 

The  mighty  conquests  of  the  proud, 

And  blast  the  laurels  of  the  great ; 

Thou  canst  make  brighter  glory  set 
I'  th'  sudden  in  a  cloud. 

How  can  the  feeble  works  of  art 

Hold  out  against  th'  assault  of  storms  ? 
Or  how  can  brass  to  him  impart 
Sense  of  surviving  fame,  whose  heart 

Is  now  resolved  to  worms  ? 

Blind  folly  of  triumphing  pride ! 

Eternity,  why  build'st  thou  here  ? 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  highest  tide 
Its  humbled  stream  in  the  ocean  hide, 

And  ne'er  the  same  appear  ? 

That  tide  which  did  its  banks  o'erflow, 
As  sent  abroad  by  th'  angry  sea 


160  WILLIAM    HABINGTON. 


To  level  vastest  buildings  low, 
And  all  our  trophies  overthrow, 
Ebbs  like  a  thief  away. 

And  thou  who,  to  preserve  thy  name, 

Leav'st  statues  in  some  conquered  land, 
How  will  posterity  scorn  fame, 
When  th'  idol  shall  receive  a  maim, 
And  lose  a  foot  or  hand ! 

How  wilt  thou  hate  thy  wars,  when  he 
Who  only  for  his  hire  did  raise 

Thy  counterfeit  in  stone,  with  thee 

Shall  stand  competitor,  and  be 

Perhaps  thought  worthier  praise  ! 

No  laurel  wreath  about  my  brow ! 

To  thee,  my  God,  all  praise,  whose  law 
The  conquered  doth,  and  conqueror  bow ! 
For  both  dissolve  to  air,  if  Thou 

Thy  influence  but  withdraw. 

aUID    GLORIARIS    IN    MALICIA  ? — DAVID. 

SWELL  no  more,  proud  man,  so  high  ! 

For  enthroned  where'er  you  sit, 

Raised  by  fortune,  sin,  and  wit, 
In  a  vault  thou  dust  must  lie. 

He  who  is  lifted  up  by  vice, 

Hath  a  neighboring  precipice, 
Dazzling  his  distorted  eye. 

Shallow  is  that  unsafe  sea 

Over  which  you  spread  your  sail, 
And  the  bark  you  trust  to,  frail 

As  the  winds  it  must  obey. 

Mischief,  while  it  prospers,  brings 
Favor  from  the  smile  of  kings — 

Useless,  soon  is  thrown  away 


WILLIAM    HABINGTON.  161 


Profit  though  sin  it  extort, 

Princes  even  accounted  good 
Courting  greatness  ne'er  withstood, 

Since  its  empire  doth  support. 

But  when  death  makes  them  repent, 
They  condemn  the  instrument, 

And  are  thought  religious  for't. 

Pitched  down  from  that  height  you  bear, 
How  distracted  will  you  lie, 
When  your  nattering  clients  fly, 

As  your  fate  infectious  were  ! 

When  of  all  th'  obsequious  throng 
That  moved  by  your  heart  and  tongue 

None  shall  in  the  storm  appear ; 

When  that  abject  insolence, 

(Which  submits  to  the  more  great, 
And  disdains  the  weaker  state, 

As  misfortunes  were  offence,) 

Shall  at  court  be  judged  a  crime, 
Though  in  practice  and  the  time, 

Purchase  wit  at  your  expense. 

Each  small  tempest  shakes  the  proud, 
Whose  large  branches  vainly  sprout 
Above  the  measure  of  the  root ; 

But  let  storms  speak  ne'er  so  loud, 
And  th'  astonished  day  be  night, 
Yet  the  just  shines  in  a  light 

Fair  as  noon  without  a  cloud. 

VIA  TUAS  DOMINE  DEMONSTRA  MIHI. 

WHERE  have  I  wandered  ?     In  what  way, 

Horrid  as  night 

Increased  by  storm,  did  I  delight  ? 
Thou,  my  sad  soul,  didst  often  say, 
'Twas  death  and  madness  so  to  stray. 
14* 


lf>2  WILLIAM    HABINGTON. 


On  that  false  ground  I  joyed  to  tread, 

Which  seemed  most  fair, 

Though  every  path  had  a  new  snare. 
And  every  turning  still  did  lead 
To  the  dark  region  of  the  dead. 

But  with  the  surfeit  of  delight 

I  am  so  tired, 

That  now  I  loathe  what  I  admired, 
And  my  distasted  appetite 
So  abhors  the  meat,  it  hates  the  sight. 

For  should  we  naked  sin  descry, 

Not  beautified 

By  the  aid  of  wantonness  and  pride, 
Like  some  misshapen  birth  'twould  lie, 
A  torment  to  the  affrighted  eye. 

But  clothed  in  beauty  and  respect, 

Even  o'er  the  wise 

How  powerful  doth  it  tyrannize  ! 
Whose  monstrous  form  should  they  detect, 
They  famine  sooner  would  affect.1 

And  since  those  shadows  which  oppress 

My  sight,  begin 

To  clear  and  show  the  shape  of  sin, 
A  scorpion  sooner  be  my  guest, 
And  warm  his  venom  in  my  breast. 

May  I,  before  I  grow  so  vile 

By  sin  again, 

Be  thrown  off  as  a  scorn  to  men  ; 
May  th'  angry  world  decree  to  exile 
Me  to  some  yet  unpeopled  isle. 

Where  while  I  struggle,  and  in  vain 
Labor  to  find 
Some  creature  that  shall  have  a  mind, 

1Love. 


WILLIAM    HABINGTON.  163 


What  justice  have  I  to  complain, 
If  I  thy  inward  grace  retain  ? 

My  God,  if  thou  shalt  not  exclude 

Thy  comfort  thence, 

What  place  can  seem  to  troubled  sense 
So  melancholy,  dark,  and  rude, 
To  be  esteem i'tl  a  solitude? 

Cast  me  upon  some  naked  shore, 

Where  I  may  track 

Only  the  print  of  some  sad  wreck, 
If  Thou  be  there,  though  the  seas  roar, 
I  shall  no  gentler  calm  implore. 

VERSA  EST  IN  LUCTUM  CYTHARA  MEA. JOB 

LOVE  !  I  no  orgies  sing, 

Whereby  thy  mercies  to  invoke, 
Nor  from  the  east  rich  perfumes  bring, 

To  cloud  thy  altars  with  the  precious  smoke. 

Nor  while  I  did  frequent 

Those  fanes  by  lovers  raised  to  thee, 
Did  I  loose  heathenish  rights  invent, 

To  force  a  blush  from  injured  chastity. 

Religious  was  the  charm 

I  used  affection  to  entice, 
And  thought  none  burnt  more  bright  or  warm, 

Yet  chaste  as  winter  was  the  sacrifice. 

But  now  I  thee  bequeath 

To  the  soft  silken  youths  at  court, 
Who  may  their  witty  passions  breathe, 

To  raise  their  mistress'  smile,  or  make  her  sport. 

They'll  smooth  thee  into  rhyme, 

Such  as  shall  catch  the  wanton  ear ; 

And  win  opinion  with  the  time, 

To  make  them  a  high  sail  of  honor  bear. 


164  WILLIAM    HABINGTON. 


And  many  a  powerful  smile, 

Cherish  their  flatteries  of  wit, 
While  I  my  life  of  fame  beguile, 

And  under  my  own  vine  uncourted  stt. 

For  I  have  seen  the  pine, 

Famed  for  its  travels  o'er  the  sea, 
Broken  with  storms  and  age,  decline, 

And  in  some  creek  unpitied  rot  away. 

I  have  seen  cedars  fall, 

And  in  their  room  a  mushroom  grow ; 
I  have  seen  comets  threatening  all, 

Vanish  themselves  :  I  have  seen  princes  so. 

Vain,  trivial  dust !  weak  man  ! 

Where  is  that  virtue  of  thy  breath 
That  others  save  or  ruin  can, 

When  thou  thyself  art  called  to  account  by  death  ? 

When  I  consider  thee, 

The  scorn  of  time  and  sport  of  fate, 
How  can  I  turn  to  jollity 

My  ill-strung  harp,  and  court  the  delicate  ? 

How  can  I  but  disdain 

The  empty  fallacies  of  mirth, 
And  in  my  midnight  thoughts  retain, 

How  high  soe'er  I  spread  my  roots  in  earth  ? 

Fond  youth  !  too  long  I  played 

The  wanton  with  a  false  deiight, 
Which  when  I  touched  I  found  a  shade, 

That  only  wrought  on  th'  error  of  my  sight, 

Then  since  pride  doth  decay 

The  soul  to  flattered  ignorance, 
I  from  the  world  will  steal  away, 

And  by  humility  my  thoughts  advance 


EDMUND    WALLER.  165 


EDMUND  WALLER. 

EDMUND  WALLER  was  born  at  Coleshill,  in  Hertfordshire,  in  1605, 
was  educated  at  Eton,  and  at  King's  College,  Cambridge.  He  was 
sent  to  parliament  at  the  age  of  eighteen ;  frequented  the  court  of 
James  L,  and  suffered  considerably  during  the  civil  war  for  his  attach- 
ment to  the  monarchy,  but  closed  his  long  life  in  peace,  at  Beacons- 
field,  in  1687.  Waller  was  a  fine  poet,  and  he  excelled  all  his  contem- 
poraries in  his  command  of  the  harmonies  of  the  English  language. 
"  He  belonged,"  says  Hazlitt, "  to  the  same  class  as  Suckling  :  the  sport- 
ive, the  sparkling,  and  the  polished."  His  sublimest  poem  is  on  the 
Death  of  Cromwell ;  but  many  of  his  religious  pieces  are  distinguished 
for  dignity  and  beauty. 

LOVE. 

TILL  love  appear,  we  live  in  anxious  doubt ; 
But  smoke  will  vanish  when  that  flame  breaks  out. 
This  is  the  fire  that  would  consume  our  dross, 
Refine  and  make  us  richer  by  the  loss. 
Could  we  forbear  dispute  and  practise  love, 
We  should  agree  as  angels  do  above. 
Where  love  presides,  not  vice  alone  does  find 
No  entrance  there,  but  virtues  stay  behind. 
Both  Faith  and  Hope,  and  all  the  meaner  train 
Of  moral  virtues,  at  the  door  remain  ; 
Love  only  enters  as  a  native  there, 
For  born  in  heaven,  it  does  but  sojourn  here. 
Weak,  though  we  are,  to  love  is  no  hard  task, 
And  love  for  love  is  all  that  Heaven  does  ask : 
Love  that  would  all  men  just  and  temperate  make, 
Kind  to  themselves  and  others,  for  his  sake. 
'Tis  with  our  minds  as  with  a  fertile  ground, 
Wanting  this  love,  they  must  with  weeds  abound : 
Unruly  passions,  whose  effects  are  worse 
Than  thorns  and  thistles  springing  from  the  curse. 


166  EDMUND  WALLER. 


LOVE  OF  GOD  TO  MAN. 

THAT  early  love  of  creatures  yet  unmade 

To  frame  the  world  the  Almighty  did  persuade  : 

For  love  it  was  that  first  created  light, 

Moved  on  the  waters,  chased  away  the  night 

From  the  rude  chaos,  and  bestowed  new  grace 

On  things  disposed  of  to  their  proper  place, 

Some  to  rest  here,  and  some  to  shine  above  : 

Earth,  sea,  and  heaven,  were  all  th'  effects  of  love. 

And  love  would  be  returned,  but  there  was  none 

That  to  themselves  or  others  yet  were  known. 

The  world  a  palace  was  without  a  guest, 

Till  one  appears  that  must  excel  the  rest ; 

One  like  the  Author,  whose  capacious  mind 

Might  by  the  glorious  work  the  Maker  find  ; 

Might  measure  heaven,  and  give  each  star  a  name, 

With  art  and  courage  the  rough  ocean  tame ; 

Over  the  globe  with  swelling  sails  might  go, 

And  that  'tis  round  by  his  experience  know  ; 

Make  strongest  beasts  obedient  to  his  will, 

And  serve  his  use  the  fertile  earth  to  till. 

When  by  his  word  God  had  accomplished  all, 

Man  to  create  He  did  a  council  call ; 

Employed  his  hand  to  give  the  dust  He  took 

A  graceful  figure  and  majestic  look  ; 

With  his  own  breath  conveyed  into  his  breast 

Life  and  a  soul,  fit  to  command  the  rest, 

Worthy  alone  to  celebrate  his  name, 

For  such  a  gift,  and  tell  from  whence  it  came : 

Birds  sing  his  praises  in  a  wilder  note, 

But  not  with  lasting  numbers,  and  with  thought, 

Man's  great  prerogative.     But  above  all, 

His  grace  abounds  in  his  new  favorite's  fall. 

If  He  create,  it  is  a  world  He  makes ; 

If  He  be  angry,  the  creation  shakes. 

From  his  just  wrath  our  guilty  parents  fled  ; 

He  cursed  the  earth,  but  bruised  the  serpent's  head. 


EDMUND   WALLER.  16*7 


Amidst  the  storm  his  bounty  did  exceed, 
In  the  rich  promise  of  the  virgin's  Seed ; 
Though  Justice  death  as  satisfaction  craves, 
Love  finds  a  way  to  pluck  us  from  our  graves. 


THE      SCRIPTURES. 

THE  Grecian  muse  has  all  their  gods  survived, 
Nor  Jove  at  us,  nor  Phoebus,  is  arrived ; 
Frail  deities,  which  first  the  poets  made, 
And  then  invoked  to  give  their  fancies  aid  ! 
Yet  if  they  still  divert  us  with  their  rage, 
What  may  be  hoped  for  in  a  better  age, 
When  not  from  Helicon's  imagined  spring. 
But  sacred  writ,  we  borrow  what  we  sing? 
This  with  the  fabric  of  the  world  begun, 
Elder  than  light,  and  shall  outlast  the  sun. 
Before  this  oracle,  like  Dagon,  all 
The  false  pretenders,  Delphos,  Hammon,  fall : 
Long  since  despised  and  silent,  they  afford 
Honor  and  triumph  to  the  eternal  Word. 
As  late  Philosophy  our  globe  has  graced, 
And  rolling  earth  among  the  planets  placed, 
So  has  this  Book  entitled  us  to  heaven, 
And  rules  to  guide  us  to  that  mansion  given  ; 
Tells  the  conditions  how  our  peace  was  made, 
And  is  our  pledge  for  the  great  Author's  aid. 
His  power  in  nature's  ample  book  we  find  ; 
But  the  less  volume  doth  express  his  mind. 
This  light  unknown,  bold  Epicurus  taught, 
That  his  blest  gods  vouchsafe  us  not  a  thought, 
But  unconcerned,  let  all  below  them  slide, 
As  fortune  does,  or  human  wisdom,  guide. 
Religion  thus  removed,  the  sacred  yoke, 
And  band  of  all  society,  is  broke : 
What  use  of  oaths,  of  promise,  or  of  test, 
Where  men  regard  no  God  but  interest  ? 


168  EDMUND    WALLER. 


What  endless  war  would  jealous  nations  bear, 
If  none  above  did  witness  what  they  swear  ? 
Sad  fate  of  unbelievers,  and  yet  just, 
Among  themselves  to  find  so  little  trust ! 
Were  Scripture  silent,  nature  would  proclaim, 
Without  a  God,  our  falsehood  and  our  shame. 
To  know  our  thoughts  the  object  of  his  eyes, 
Is  the  first  step  towards  being  good  or  wise ; 
For  though  with  judgment  we  on  things  reflect, 
Our  will  determines,  not  our  intellect : 
Slaves  to  their  passion,  reason  men  employ 
Only  to  compass  what  they  would  enjoy ; 
His  fear  to  guard  us  from  ourselves  we  need, 
And  sacred  writ  our  reason  doth  exceed : 
For  though  heaven  shows  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
Yet  something  shines  more  glorious  in  his  word ; 
His  mercy  this,  (which  all  his  work  excels,) 
His  tender  kindness  and  compassion  tells  : 
While  we,  informed  by  that  celestial  Book, 
Into  the  bowels  of  our  Maker  look. 


JOHN    MILTON.  160 


JOHN  MILTON 

WAS  born  in  London,  in  1608.  After  leaving  Cambridge,  he  remained 
some  time  at  his  father's  house  in  Horton,  Buckinghamshire ;  and 
when  turned  of  thirty,  he  went  to  Italy,  whence  he  returned  about  the 
breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars.  He  took  office  under  Cromwell,  and 
was  the  literary  champion  of  the  Commonwealth.  On  the  Restora- 
tion, he  was  included  in  the  act  of  amnesty,  and  he  retired  to  Chalfont 
St.  Giles,  Bucks,  where  the  house  in  which  he  lived  still  stands,  almost 
entire.  It  was  here  that  he  produced,  in  total  darkness,  his  "  Paradise 
Lost,"  and  afterwards  his  "  Paradise  Regained."  He  died  in  1674.  The 
literary  judgment  of  the  people  of  this  country  has  been  vindicated  by 
the  sale  of -numerous  and  immense  editions  of  Milton's  poems.  The 
only  American  edition  of  his  prose  works  was  published  under  the 
direction  of  the  editor  of  this  volume,  in  1845  and  in  1847. 

Milton  became  a  Presbyterian,  but  in  his  last  years  was  an  Inde- 
pendent, agreeing  most  nearly  with  the  Baptists  of  the  present  day. 
Some  crude  notions  in  theology  are  stated  in  his  "  Treatise  on  Chris- 
tian Doctrine,"  recently  printed.  This  was  probably  written  at  an 
early  period,  and  it  would  never  have  been  published  by  himself.  Af- 
ter its  appearance,  Macaulay  had  no  more  difficulty  in  discovering  from 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  and  "  Paradise  Regained,"  that  Milton  was  an  Ari- 
an,  than  some  phrenologists  have  in  deciding  upon  the  character  oi 
any  person,  who  is  well  known,  from  his  skull. 


ADAM'S  MORNING  HYMN. 

THESE  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  Good  ! 
Almighty  !  thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair  ;  Thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 
Unspeakable,  who  sittest  above  these  heavens 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought  and  power  divine. 
Speak  ye,  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels ;  for  ye  behold  Him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
15 


170  JOHN    MILTON. 


Circle  his  throne,  rejoicing  ;  ye  in  heaven  : 

On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 

Him  first,  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  Him  in  thy  sphere, 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  high  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  Him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fliest, 

With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies ; 

And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move  .' . 

In  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 

His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  Nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform  ;  and  mix, 

And  nourish  all  things  ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  streaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 

Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author,  rise ; 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  th'  uncolored  sky, 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 

Rising  or  falling  still  advance  His  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 

Breathe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow, 

Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  ;  ye  birds, 

That  singing  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 


JOHN    MILTON.  171 


The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep, 
Witness  if  I  be  silent  morn  or  even. 
To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade, 
Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Hail,  universal  Lord !  be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good  ;  and,  if  the  night 
Have  gathered  aught  of  evil,  or  concealed, 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark ! 


HYMN    ON    THE     NATIVITY. 

IT  was  the  winter  wild, 

While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt,  in  the  rude  manger  lies : 

Nature  in  awe  to  Him 

Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only,  with  speeches  fair, 

She  woos  the  gentle  air, 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow  ; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw ; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  He  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 
She,  crowned  with  olive-green,  came  softly  sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing  ; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle-wand, 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 


172  JOHN    MILTON. 


No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 

Was  heard  the  world  around  : 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung, 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood  ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng ; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  tho  night, 

Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began : 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean  ; 

Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence, 

And  will  not  take  their  flight, 

For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer,  that  often  warned  them  thence  ; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 

Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 

Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 
The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should  need  : 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 


JOHN    MILTON.  173 


Full  little  thought  they  then, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook  ; 

Divinely- warbled  voice 

Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 

The  air,  such  pleasures  loth  to  lose 

With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly 

close- 
Nature  that  heard  such  sound, 

Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrilling, 

Now  was  almost  won 

To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling  ; 

She  knew*  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night  arrayed ; 

The  helmed  cherubim, 

And  sworded  seraphim, 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 

With  unexpressive  notes  to  heaven's  new-born  Heir, 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made, 
But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 
15* 


174  JOHN    MILTON. 


And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel 
keep.          «, 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time  ; 
And  let  the  base  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow ; 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  concert  to  th'  angelic  symphony. 

For  if  such  holy  song 

Inwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 

And  speckled  vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 

And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day, 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 

Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow  ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between, 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering ; 

And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace  hall 

But  wisest  fate  says,  No, 

This  must  not  yet  be  so, 
The  Babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  infancy, 

That  on  the  bitter  cross 

Must  redeem  our  loss ; 
So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify  : 


JOHN    MILTON.  175 


Yet  first  to  those  chained  in  sleep 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through 
the  deep. 

With  such  a  J^orrid  clang 

As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 
While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake ; 

The  aged  earth  aghast, 

With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake ; 

When  at  the  world's  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his 
throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss, 

Full  and  perfect  is, 
But  now  begins  :  for,  from  this  happy  day, 

The  old  dragon  under  ground, 

In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 

And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 

Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 

And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 

From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 

Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  Geniu«  is  with  sighing  sent : 


176  JOHN    MILTON. 


With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  Nymphs,  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets, 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth, 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  lars  and  lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 

In  urns  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  flamens  at  their  service  quaint : 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice  battered  god  of  Palestine  ; 

And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shrine, 

The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 

In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Tammuz 
mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch  fled, 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue  ; 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring, 

They  call  the  grizly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue  : 

The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 

Isis  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud  : 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest, 
Naught  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud ; 


JOHN    MILTON.  177 


In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 

The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 

The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyne ; 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 

Longer  dare  abide, 
Nor  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine : 

Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 

Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red,  » 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave  ; 

The  flocking  shadows  pale 

Troop  to  th'  infernal  jail, 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave ; 

And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved 
maze. 

But  see,  the  virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest ; 
Tune  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending ; 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending  : 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


ON    THE    MASSACRE    IN    PIEDMONT. 

AVENGE,  0  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans, 


1*78  JOHN    MILTON. 


Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 

O'er  all  th'  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant :  that  from  these  may  grow 

A  hundred-fold,  who  having  learned  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  wo. 


ON    HIS    BLINDNESS. 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide ; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied  ?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts  ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best ;  his  state 
Is  kingly.  Thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  alsc  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


• 


JEREMY    TAYLOR.  179 


JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

THE  great  Jeremy  Taylor,  though  little  known  as  a  poet,  wrote 
hymns  and  other  lyrical  pieces,  well  deserving  notice.  It  is  true  that 
they  are  not  so  remarkable  as  his  prose,  for  felicity  of  diction,  but  they 
are  full  of  rich  and  noble  thoughts,  fitted  to  improve  the  heart.  He 
xvas  born  in  1613,  and  died,  bishop  of  Down  and  Connor,  in  1667. 

THE  WISE  MEN  COMING  TO  WORSHIP  JESUS. 

A  COMET  dangling  in  the  air, 

Presaged  the  ruin  both  of  death  and  sin ; 

And  told  the  wise  men  of  a  King, 

The  King  of  glory,  and  the  Sun 

Of  righteousness,  who  then  begun 

To  draw  towards  that  blessed  hemisphere. 

They  from  the  furthest  east,  this  new 

And  unknown  light  pursue, 

Till  they  appear 

In  this  blest  infant  King's  propitious  eye, 
And  pay  their  homage  to  his  royalty. 
Persia  might  then  the  rising  sun  adore  ; 
It  was  idolatry  no  more. 
Great  God  !  they  gave  to  Thee 

Myrrh,  frankincense,  and  gold  ; 
But,  Lord,  with  what  shall  we 
Present  ourselves  before  thy  Majesty, 

Whom  Thou  redeemest  when  we  were  sold  ? 
We've  nothing  but  ourselves,  and  scarce  that  neither ; 

Vile  dirt  and  clay  ; 

Yet  it  is  soft,  and  may 

Impression  take. 

Accept  it,  Lord,  and  say,  this  Thou  hadst  rather ; 
Stamp  it,  and  on  this  sordid  metal  make 
Thy  holy  image,  and  it  shall  outshine 
The  beauty  of  the  golden  mine.     Amen. 


180  JEREMY    TAYLOR. 


IMMANUEL. 

How  good  a  God  have  we  !  who  for  our  sake, 
To  save  us  from  the  burning  lake, 
Did  change  the  order  of  creation  : 

At  first  He  made 

Man  like  Himself  in  his  own  image  ;  now 
In  the  more  blessed  reparation, 
The  heavens  bow, 
Eternity  took  the  measure  of  a  span  ; 

And  said, 

"  Let  us  make  ourselves  like  man  ; 
And  not  from  man  the  woman  take, 
But  from  the  woman,  man." 
Hallelujah,  we  adore 
His  name,  whose  goodness  hath  no  store. 

OF     HEAVEN. 

0  BEAUTEOUS  God,  uncircumscribcd  treasure 

Of  an  eternal  pleasure, 

•Thy  throne  is  seated  far 

Above  the  highest  star, 

Where  Thou  preparest  a  glorious  place 

Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face, 

For  every  spirit 

To  inherit, 

That  build  his  hopes  upon  thy  merit, 

And  loves  Thee  with  a  holy  charity. 

What  ravished  heart,  seraphic  tongue  or  eyes; 

Clear  as  the  morning  rise, 

Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 

That  bright  eternity  ? 

Where  the  great  King's  transparent  throne 

Is  of  an  entire  jasper- stone  ; 

There  the  eye 

0'  th'  chrysolite, 

And  a  sky 

Of  diamonds,  rubies,  chrysoprase, 


SIR    EDWARD    SHERBURNE.  181 

And  above  all,  thy  holy  face, 

Makes  an  eternal  charity. 

When  Thou  thy  jewels  up  dost  bind — that  day 

Remember  us  we  pray, 

That  where  the  beryl  lies, 

And  the  crystal  'bove  the  skies, 

There  Thou  mayest  appoint  us  place 

Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face, 

And  our  soul, 

In  the  scroll 

Of  life  and  blissfulness  enrol, 

That  we  may  praise  Thee  to  eternity.     Allelujah. 


SIR  EDWARD  SHERBURNE. 

SIR  EDWARD  SHERBURNE  was  born  in  Lancashire,  in  1618.  He 
was  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  zealously  served  the  king  during  the  whole 
of  the  civil  war,  much  to  the  injury  of  his  fortune.  Besides  several 
poetical  translations  from  Seneca  and  others,  he  was  the  author  of  a 
volume  of  "Miscellanies,"  which  contain  passages  of  considerable 
beauty.  He  died  almost  in  poverty,  in  1702. 

CONSCIENCE. 

INFERNAL  Cerberus  !  whose  griping  fangs, 
That -gnaw  the  soul,  are  the  mind's  secret  pangs  ; 
Thou  greedy  vulture  !  that  dost  gorging  tire 
On  hearts  corrupted  by  impure  desire ; 
Subtle  and  buzzing  hornet !  that  dost  ring 
A  peal  of  horror  ere  thou  givest  the  sting  ; 
The  soul's  rough  file,  that  smoothness  does  impart ; 
The  hammer  that  does  break  the  stony  heart ! 
The  worm  that  never  dies  !  the  "thorn  within," 
That  pricks  and  pains  !  the  whip  and  scourge  of  sin  ! 
The  voice  of  God  in  man  !  which  without  rest 
Dost  softly  cry  within  a  troubled  breast — 
"  To  all  temptations  is  that  soul  set  free 
That  makes  not  to  itself  a  curb  of  me." 
16 


l82  HENRY    MORE. 


HENEY   MORE. 

HENRY  MORE  was  born  at  Grantham,  in  Lincolnshire,  in  1614.  He 
was  educated  at  Eton,  and  afterwards  removed  to  Cambridge,  where 
he  studied  philosophy.  He  obtained  a  fellowship,  and  was  presented 
to  a  prebend  in  the  church  of  Gloucester.  He  died  in  1687.  His 
principal  works  are,  "  The  Mystery  of  Godliness,"  "  Mystery  of  Ini- 
quity," "  Philosophical  Collections."  These  in  his  day  were  emi- 
nently popular.  They  are  little  suited  .to  the  taste  of  the  modern 
reader,  though  enlivened  with  gleams  of  fancy,  and  bursts  of  poetic 
feeling. 


THE      PHILOSOPHER     S      DEVOTION 

SING  aloud,  his  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  the  universe  ; 
He  the  boundless  heavens  has  spread, 
All  the  vital  orbs  has  kned  : 
He  that  on  Olympus  high 
Tends  his  flock  with  watchful  eye  ; 
And  this  eye  has  multiplied, 
'Midst  each  flock  for  to  reside. 
Thus  as  round  about  they  stray, 
Toucheth  each  with  outstretched  ray ; 
Nimbly  they  hold  on  their  way, 
Shaping  out  their  night  and  day. 
Never  slack  they  ;  none  respires, 
Dancing  round  their  central  fires. 

In  due  order  as  they  move, 
Echoes  sweet  be  gently  drove 
Thorough  heaven's  vast  hollowness 
Which  unto  all  corners,  press, — • 
Music  that  the  heart  of  Jove 
Moves  to  joy  and  sportful  love, 


HENRY    MORE.  183 


Fills  the  listening  sailors'  ears, 
Riding  on  the  wandering  spheres  ; 
Neither  speech  nor  language  is 
Where  their  voice  is  not  transmiss. 

God  is  good,  is  wise,  is  strong, 
Witness  all  the  creature  throng  ; 
Is  confessed  by  every  tongue — 
All  things,  back  from  whence  they  sprung : 
As  the  thankful  livers  pay 
What  they  borrowed  of  the  sea. 

Now  myself  I  do  resign  ; 
Take  me  whole,  I  all  am  thine. 
Save  me,  God,  from  self-desire, 
Death's  pit,  dark  hell's  raging  fire, 
Envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  ire  ; 
Let  not  lust  my  soul  bemire. 

Quit  from  these,  thy  praise  I'll  sing, 
Loudly  sweep  the  trembling  string  ; 
Bear  a  part,  0  wisdom's  sons  ! 
Freed  from  vain  religions. 
Lo  1  from  far  I  you  salute, 
Sweetly  warbling  on  my  lute. 

India,  Egypt,  Araby, 
Asia,  Greece,  and  Tartary ; 
Carmel-tracts,  and  Lebanon, 
With  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon, 
From  whence  muddy  Nile  doth  run ; 
Or,  wherever  else  you  won, 
Breathing  in  one  vital  air  : — 
One  we  are,  though  distant  far. 

Rise  at  once — let's  sacrifice 
Odors  sweet,  perfume  the  skies. 
See  how  heavenly  lightning  fires 
Hearts  inflamed  with  high  aspires  : 
All  the  substance  of  our  souls 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  rolls  ! 
Leave  we  nothing  to  ourselves, 
Save  a  voice — what  need  we  else  ? 


184  HENRY    MORE. 


Or  an  hand  to  wear  and  tire 
On  the  thankful  lute  and  lyre. 
Sing  aloud  !  his  praise  rehearse, 
Who  hath  made  the  universe. 


FALSE     AND     TRUE     RELIGION. 

CAN  wars,  and  jars,  and  fierce  contention, 
Swoln  hatred,  and  consuming  envy  spring 
From  piety  ? — No,  'tis  opinion 
That  makes  the  riven  heaven  with  trumpets  ring, 
And  thundering  engine  murderous  balls  outsling, 
And  send  men's  groaning  ghosts  to  lower  shade 
Of  horrid  hell.     This  the  wide  world  doth  bring 
To  devastation,  makes  mankind  to  fade  ; 
Such  direful  things  doth  false  religion  persuade. 

But  true  religion,  sprung  from  God  above, 
Is  like  her  fountain — full  of  charity  ; 
Embracing  all  things  with  a  tender  love, 
Full  of  good  will  and  meek  expectancy  ; 
Full  of  true  justice  and  sure  verity, 
In  heart  and  voice  :  free,  large,  even  infinite  ; 
Not  wedged  in  strait  particularity, 
But  grasping  all  in  her  vast  active  sprite — 
Bright  lamp  of  God,  that  men  would  joy  in  thy  pure  light ! 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY.  185 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

WAS  born  in  London  in  1618.  He  was  early  sent  to  Cambridge, 
but  being  a  zealous  loyalist,  was  ejected  thence,  and  retired  first  to 
Oxford,  and  afterwards  to  France.  He  was  made  secretary  to  Lord 
Jermyn,  and  after  the  Restoration,  through  his  interest,  obtained  an 
advantageous  lease,  which  set  him  at  ease  in  fortune.  He  died  at 
Chertsey,  in  1667,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  near  Chau- 
cer and  Spenser.  The  writings  of  Cowley  have  great  and  various 
merit.  They  display  a  vivid  imagination,  clear  intellect,  and  a  rich 
command  of  language  ;  but  his  style  is  too  artificial.  "  In  Cowley," 
says  Mr.  Montgomery,  "  it  has  been  the  fate  of  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant intellects  that  ever  arose  in  this  country  never  to  be  estimated  by 
its  real  excellence." 


FROM         THE     GARDEN. 

METHINKS  I  see  great  Diocletian  walk 

In  the  Salonian  garden's  noble  shade, 
Which  by  his  own  imperial  hands  was  made : 

I  see  him  smile  (methinks)  as  he  does  talk 
With  the  ambassadors  who  came  in  vain 
To  entice  him  to  a  throne  again. 
"If  I,  my  friends,"  said  he,  "should  to  you  show 
All  the  delights  which  in  these  gardens  grow, 
'Tis  likelier  much  that  you  should  with,  me  stay, 
Than  'tis  that  you  should  carry  me  away : 
And  trust  me  not,  my  friends,  if  every  day 
I  walk  not  here  with  more  delight 
Than  even  after  the  most  happy  fight 
In  triumph  to  the  Capitol  I  rode, 

To  thank  the  gods,  and  to  be  thought  myself  almost  a  god !" 
16* 


186  ABRAHAM    COWLEY. 


THE     ECSTASY. 

I  LEAVE  mortality,  and  things  below ; 
I  have  no  time  in  compliments  to  waste, 
Farewell  to  ye  all  in  haste, 

For  I  am  called  to  go. 
A  whirlwind  bears  up  my  dull  feet, 
The  officious  clouds  beneath  them  meet, 
And  lo  !  I  mount,  and  lo ! 
How  small  the  biggest  parts  of  earth's  proud  title  show. 

Where  shall  I  find  the  noble  British  land  ? 
Lo !  I  at  last  a  northern  speck  espy, 
Which  in  the  sea  does  lie, 

And  seems  a  grain  o'  the  sand  ,* 
For  this  will  any  sin  or  bleed  ? 
Of  civil  wars  is  this  the  meed  ? 
And  is  it  this,  alas !  which  we, 
Oh  !  irony  of  words  !  do  call  Great  Britannic  ? 

I  passed  by  th'  arched  magazines  which  hold 
Th'  eternal  stores  of  frost,  and  rain  and  snow ; 
Dry  and  secure  I  go, 

Nor  shake  with  fear  or  cold  ; 
Without  affright  or  wonder, 
I  meet  clouds  charged  with  thunder, 
And  lightnings  in  my  way, 
Like  harmless  lambent  fires  about  my  temples  play. 

Now  into  a  gentle  sea  of  rolling  flame 
I'm  plunged,  and  still  mount  higher  there, 
As  flames  mount  up  through  air, 

So  perfect,  yet  so  tame, 
So  great,  so  pure,  so  bright  a  fire 
Was  that  unfortunate  desire, 
My  faithful  breast  did  cover, 
When,  when  I  was  of  late  a  wretched  mortal  lover. 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY.  187 


Throng  several  orbs  which  one  fair  planet  bear, 
Where  I  behold  distinctly  as  I  pass, 
The  hints  of  Galileo's  glass, 

I  touch  at  last  the  spangled  sphere. 
Here  all  the  extended  sky 
Is  but  one  galaxy, 
'Tis  all  so  bright  and  gay, 
And  the  joint  eyes  of  night  make  up  a  perfect  day. 

Where  am  I  now  ?  angels  and  God  is  here ; 
An  unexhausted  ocean  of  delight 
Swallows  my  senses  quite, 

And  drowns  all  what,  or  how,  or  where ; 
Not  Paul,  who  first  did  thither  pass, 
And  this  great  world's  Columbus  was, 
The  tyrannous  pleasure  could  express  ; 
Oh,  'tis  too  much  for  man !  but  let  it  ne'er  be  less. 

The  mighty  Elijah  mounted  so  on  high, 
That  second  man,  who  leaped  the  ditch  where  all 
The  rest  of  mankind  fall, 

And  went  not  downwards  to  the  sky. 
With  much  of  pomp  and  show, 
As  conquering  kings  in  triumph  go, 
Did  he  to  heaven  approach, 
And  wondrous  was  his  way,  and  wondrous  was  his  coach. 

'Twas  gaudy  all,  and  rich  in  every  part, 
Of  essences  of  gems,  and  spirit  of  gold, 
Was  its  substantial  mould  ; 

Drawn  forth  by  chemic  angel's  art, 
Here  with  moonbeams  'twas  silvered  bright, 
There  double-gilt  with  the  sun's  light, 
And  mystic  shapes  cut  round  in  it, 
Figures  that  did  transcend  a  vulgar  angel's  wit. 

The  horses  were  of  tempered  lightning  made, 
Of  all  that  in  heaven's  beauteous  pastures  feed 
The  noblest,  sprightfullest  breed  ; 

And  flaming  manes  their  necks  arrayed : 


188  ABRAHAM    COWLEY. 


They  all  were  shod  with  diamond 
Not  such  as  here  are  found, 
But  such  light  solid  ones  as  shine 
On  the  transparent  rocks  o'  th'  heavenly  crystalline. 

Thus  mounted  the  great  prophet  to  the  skies ; 
Astonished  men,  who  oft  had  seen  stars  fall, 
Or  that  which  so  they  call, 

Wondered  from  hence  to  see  one  rise. 
The  soft  clouds  melted  him  a  way  ; 
The  snow  and  frosts  which  in  it  lay 
Awhile  the  sacred  footsteps  bore, 
The  wheels  and  horses'  hoofs  hissed  as  they  passed  them  o'er. 

He  passed  by  the  moon  and  planets,  and  did  fright 
All  the  worlds  there,  which  at  this  meteor  gazed, 
And  their  astrologers  amazed 

With  th'  unexampled  sight. 
But  where  he  stopped  will  ne'er  be  known, 
Till  phoenix  Nature  aged  grown, 
To  a  better  being  do  aspire, 
And  mount  herself  like  him  to  eternity  in  fire. 


ANDREW    MARVELL.  189 


ANDREW    MARVELL. 

ANDREW  MARVELL  was  born  at  Hull,  in  1620.  He  received  a  good 
education,  and,  after  travelling  for  improvement,  was  appointed  secre- 
tary to  the  English  embassy  at  Constantinople.  It  is  probable  that  he 
also  assisted  Milton  as  Latin  Secretary  1o  Cromwell.  After  the  Res- 
toration, he  was  elected  a  member  of  Parliament ;  and  such  was  his 
simplicity  of  manners  and  integrity,  that  no  offers  could  turn  him  aside 
from  the  exactest  path  of  duty.  His  poetry  is  remarkable  for  warmth 
of  feeling  and  for  elegance.  He  died  in  1678. 


THE      EMIGRANTS. 

WHERE  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds  received  their  song. 

"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  his  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own. 

Where  He  the  huge  sea-monster  racks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs  ; 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms'  and  prelates'  rage. 

He  gives  us  this  eternal  spring, 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing  ; 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us,  in  care, 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranate  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 


190  ANDREW    MARVELL. 


He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
With  cedars,  chosen  by  his  hand, 
From  Lebanon,  He  stores  the  land. 

He  cast — of  which  we  rather  boast — 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast, 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 

Oh  !  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt, 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which,  thence  perhaps  rebounding,  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  Bay." 

Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 


A     DROP     OF     DEW. 

SEE  how  the  orient  dew, 

Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 

Into  the  blowing  roses, 
Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new, 
For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born. 

Round  it  itself  encloses  ; 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 

How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 
Scarce  touching  where  it  lies ! 
But,  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 

Shines  with  a  mournful  light ; 
Like  its  own  tear, 

Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere, 
Restless  it  rolls  and  insecure, 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure  ; 


£  roun< 


191 


192  HENRY    VAUGHAN. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

HENRY  VATJ&HAN,  styled  "  the  Silurist"  by  his  contemporaries,  from 
being  of  the  Silures,  a  people  of  South  Wales,  was  descended  from 
the  ancient  Cambrian  kings,  and  was  born  in  Brecknockshire,  in  1621. 
In  his  seventeenth  year  he  was  entered  of  Jesus  College,  Oxford, 
whence  after  two  years  he  was  removed  to  London.  He  was  in- 
tended for  the  bar,  but  at  the  commencement  of  the  civil  war  he  re- 
linquished it,  and  became  eminent  both  as  a  poet  and  a  physician. 
His  sacred  poems  are  remarkable  for  originality  and  picturesque 
grace,  though  it  must  be  confessed  they  are  sullied  with  many  con- 
ceits unworthy  of  the  theme.  He  died  in  1695.  He  wrote  "Silex 
Scintillans,"  "  Sacred  Poems,"  and  "  Private  Ejaculations,"  of  which 
a  fine  edition  was  published  in  London  by  Pickering,  in  1 847. 


THE      PURSUIT. 

LORD  !  what  a  busy,  restless  thing 

Hast  them  made  man  ! 
Each  day  and  hour  he  is  on  wing, 

Rests  not  a  span. 
Then  having  lost  the  sun  and  light, 

By  clouds  surprised, 
He  keeps  a  commerce  in  the  night 

With  air  disguised. 
Hadst  thou  given  to  this  active  dust 

A  state  untired, 
The  lost  son  had  not  left  the  husk, 

Nor  home  desired. 
That  was  thy  secret,  and  it  is 

Thy  mercy  too ; 
For  when  all  fails  to  bring  to  bliss, 

Then  this  must  do. 

Ah !  Lord  !  and  what  a  purchase  will  that  be, 
To  take  us  sick,  that  sound  would  not  take  thee ! 


HHXKY    VAUGHAN.  193 


THE      WORLD. 

THOU  art  not  Truth !  for  he  that  tries 
Shall  find  thee  all  deceit  and  lies. 
Thou  art  not  Friendship  !  for  hi  thee 
'Tis  but  the  bait  of  policy ; 
Which  like  a  viper  lodged  hi  flowers, 
Its  venom  through  that  sweetness  pours ; 
And  when  not  so,  then  always  'tis 
A  fading  paint,  the  shortlived  bliss 
Of  air  and  humor,  out  and  in, 
Like  colors  in  a  dolphin's  skin : 
But  must  not  live  beyond  one  day, 
Or  for  convenience,  then  away. 
Thou  art  not  Riches  !  for  that  trash, 
Which  one  age  hoards,  the  next  doth  wash, 
And  so  severely  sweep  away, 
That  few  remember  where  it  lay. 
So  rapid  streams  the  wealthy  land 
About  them  have  at  their  command ; 
And  shifting  channels  here  restore, 
There  break  down,  what  they  banked  before. 
Thou  art  not  Honor !  for  those  gay 
Feathers  will  wear  and  drop  away ; 
And  princes  to  some  upstart  line 
Give  new  ones,  that  are  full  as  fine. 
Thou  art  not  Pleasure  !     For  thy  rose 
Upon  a  thorn  doth  still  repose, 
Which,  if  not  cropped,  will  quickly  shed, 
But  soon  as  cropped  grows  dull  and  dead. 

Thou  art  the  sand  which  fills  one  glass, 
And  then  doth  to  another  pass ; 
And  could  I  put  thee  to  a  stay, 
Thou  art  but  dust !     Then  go  thy  way, 
And  leave  me  clean  and  bright,  though  poor ; 
Who  stops  thee  doth  but  daub  his  floor ; 
And,  swallow-like,  when  he  hath  done, 
To  unknown  dwellings  must  be  gone. 
17 


194  HENRY    VADGHAN. 


Welcome,  pure  thoughts,  and  peaceful  hours, 
Enriched  with  sunshine  and  with  showers ! 
Welcome  fair  hopes,  and  holy  cares, 
The  not  to  be  repented  shares 
Of  time  and  business,  the  sure  road 
Unto  my  last  and  loved  abode ! 

0  supreme  Bliss ! 
The  circle,  centre,  and  abyss 
Of  blessings,  never  let  me  miss 
Nor  leave  that  path  which  leads  to  thee, 
Who  art  alone  all  things  to  me ! 
I  hear,  I  see,  all  the  long  day 
The  noise  and  pomp  of  the  "  broad  way." 
I  note  their  coarse  and  proud  approaches, 
Their  silks,  perfumes,  and  glittering  coaches. 
But  in  the  "  narrow  way"  to  Thee 
I  observe  only  poverty, 
And  despised  things ;  and  all  along 
The  ragged,  mean,  and  humble  throng 
Are  still  on  foot ;  and  as  they  go 
They  sigh  and  say,  Their  Lord  went  so ! 

Give  me  my  staff,  then,  as  it  stood 
When  green  and  growing  in  the  wood. 
The  stones,  which  for  the  altar  served, 
Might  not  be  smoothed  nor  finely  carved. 
With  this  poor  stick  I'll  pass  the  ford, 
As  Jacob  did ;  and  Thy  dear  word, 
As  Thou  hast  dressed  it,  not  as  wit 
And  depraved  tastes  have  poisoned  it, 
Shall  in  the  passage  be  my  meat, 
And  none  else  shall  thy  servant  eat. 
Thus,  thus,  and  in  no  other  sort, 
Will  I  set  forth,  though  laughed  at  for't  ; 
And  leaving  the  wise  world  their  way, 
Go  through,  though  judged  to  go  astray. 


HENRY    VAUGHAN.  195 


THE     BEE. 

FROM  fruitful  beds  and  flowery  borders, 
Parcelled  to  wasteful  ranks  and  orders, 
Where  state  grasps  more  than  plain  truth  needs, 
And  wholesome  herbs  are  starved  by  weeds, 
To  the  wild  woods  I  will  be  gone, 
And  the  coarse  meals  of  great  Saint  John. 

When  truth  and  piety  are  missed 
Both  in  the  rulers  and  the  priest ; 
When  pity  is  not  cold,  but  dead, 
And  the  rich  eat  the  poor  like  bread ; 
While  factious  heads  with  open  coil 
And  force,  first  make,  then  share,  the  spoil ; 
To  Horeb  then  Elias  goes, 
And  in  the  desert  grows  the  rose. 

Hail  crystal  fountains  and  fresh  shades, 
Where  no  proud  look  invades, 
No  busy  worldling  hunts  away 
The  sad  retirer  all  the  day ! 
Hail,  happy,  harmless  solitude  ! 
Our  sanctuary  from  the  rude 
And  scornful  world  ;  the  calm  recess 
Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  holiness  ! 
Here  something  still  like  Eden  looks ; 
Honey  in  woods,  juleps  in  brooks : 
And  flowers,  whose  rich,  unrifled  sweets 
With  a  chaste  kiss  the  cool  dew  greets 
When  the  toils  of  the  day  are  done, 
And  the  tired  world  sets  with  the  sun. 
Here  flying  winds  and  flowing  wells, 
Are  the  wise  watchful  hermit's  bells ; 
Their  busy  murmurs  all  the  night 
To  praise  or  prayer  do  invite ; 
And  with  an  awful  sound  arrest, 
And  piously  employ  his  breast. 

When  in  the  east  the  dawn  doth  blush, 
Here  cool  fresh  spirits  the  air  brush. 


196  HENRY    VAUGHAN. 


Herbs  straight  get  up ;  flowers  peep  and  spread ; 

Trees  whisper  praise,  and  bow  the  head : 

Birds,  from  the  shades  of  night  released, 

Look  round  about,  then  quit  the  nest, 

And  with  united  gladness  sing 

The  glory  of  the  morning's  King. 

The  hermit  hears,  and  with  meek  voice 

Offers  his  own  up,  and  their,  joys  : 

Then  prays  that  all  the  world  might  be 

Blessed  with  as  sweet  a  unity. 

If  sudden  storms  the  day  invade, 
They  flock  about  him  to  the  shade, 
Where  wisely  they  expect  the  end, 
Giving  the  tempest  time  to  spend ; 
And  hard  by  shelters  on  some  bough 
'  Hilarion's  servant,  the  sage  Crow. 

0  purer  years  of  light  and  grace  I 
Great  is  the  difference,  as  the  space, 
'Twixt  you  and  us,  who  blindly  rim 
After  false  fires  and  leave  the  sun. 
Is  not  fair  nature  of  herself 
Much  richer  than  dull  paint  and  pelf? 
And  are  not  streams  at  the  spring-head 
More  sweet  than  in  carved  stone  or  lead. 
But  fancy  and  some  artist's  tools 
Frame  a  religion  for  fools. 

The  truth,  which  once  was  plainly  taught, 
With  thorns  and  briers  now  is  fraught. 
Some  part  is  with  bold  fables  spotted, 
Some  by  strange  comments  wildly  blotted ; 
And  Discord,  old  corruption's  crest, 
With  blood  and  blame  have  stained  the  rest. 
So  snow,  which  in  its  first  descents 
A  whiteness  like  pure  heaven  presents, 
When  touched  by  man  is  quickly  soiled, 
And  after  trodden  down  and  spoiled. 

0  lead  me,  where  I  may  be  free 
In  truth  and  spirit  to  serve  Thee  J 


HEVRY    V A UGH AN.  197 


Where  undisturbed  I  may  converse 
With  thy  great  Self ;  and  there  rehearse 
Thy  gifts  with  thanks  ;  and  from  thy  store, 
Who  art  all  blessings,  beg  much  more. 
Give  me  the  wisdom  of  the  bee, 
And  her  unwearied  industry  ! 
That  from  the  wild  gourds  of  these  days, 
I  may  extract  health,  and  Thy  praise, 
Who  canst  turn  darkness  into  light, 
And  in  my  weakness  show  Thy  might. 

Suffer  me  not  in  any  wan.t 
To  seek  refreshment  from  a  plant 
Thou  didst  not  set ;  since  all  must  be 
Plucked  up,  whose  growth  is  not  from  Thee. 
'Tis  not  the  garden,  and  the  bowers, 
Nor  sense  and  forms,  that  give  to  flowers 
Their  wholesomeness  ;  but  Thy  good  will, 
Which  truth  and  pureness  purchase  still. 

Then  since  corrupt  man  hath  driven  hence 
Thy  kind  and  saving  influence, 
And  balm  is  no  more  to  be  had 
In  all  the  coasts  of  Gilead  ; 
Go  with  me  to  the  shade  and  cell, 
Where  thy  best  servants  once  did  dwell. 
There  let  me  know  Thy  will,  and  see 
Exiled  religion  owned  by  Thee  ; 
For  Thou  canst  turn  dark  grots  to  halls, 
And  make  hills  blossom  like  the  vales, 
Decking  their  untilled  heads  with  flowers, 
And  fresh  delights  for  all  sad  hours  ; 
Till  from  them,  like  a  laden  bee, 
I  may  fly  home,  and  hive  with  Thee  ! 


THE      SHEPHERDS. 

SWEET,  harmless  lives  !  on  whose  holy  leisure 
Waits  innocence  and  pleasure, 
17* 


198  UENRY    VAUGHAN. 


Whose  leaders  to  those  pastures  and  clear  springs 

Were  patriarchs,  saints,  and  kings  ; 
How  happened  it  that  in  the  dead  of  night 

You  only  saw  true  lightj 
While  Palestine  was  fast  asleep,  and  lay 

Without  one  thought  of  day  ? 
Was  it  because  those  first  and  blessed  swains 

Were  pilgrims  on  those  plains, 
When  they  received  the  promise,  for  which  now 

'Twas  there  first  shown  to  you  ? 
'Tis  true,  he  loves  that  dust  whereon  they  go 

That  serve  him  here  below, 
And  therefore  might  for  memory  of  those 

His  love  there  first  disclose  ; 
But  wretched  Salem  once  his  love,  must  now 

No  voice  nor  vision  know, 
Her  stately  piles,  with  all  their  height  and  pride, 

Now  languished  and  died. 
No  costly  pride,  no  soft-clothed  luxury, 

In  those  thin  cells  could  lie  ; 
Each  stirring  wind  and  storm  blew  through  their  cots, 

Which  never  harbored  plots  ; 
Only  content  and  love  and  humble  joys, 

Lived  there  without  all  noise  ; 
Perhaps  some  harmless  cares  for  the  next  day 

Did  in  their  bosoms  play, 
As  where  to  lead  their  sheep,  what  silent  nook, 

What  springs  or  shades  to  look ; 
But  that  was  all ;  and  now  with  gladsome  care 

They  for  the  town  prepare  ; 
They  leave  their  flock,  and  in  a  busy  talk 

All  towards  Bethlehem  walk 
To  see  their  soul's  great  Shepherd,  who  was  come, 

To  bring  all  stragglers  home  ; 
Where  now  they  find  him  out,  and,  taught  before, 

That  Lamb  of  God  adore, 

That  Lamb  whose  days  great  kings  and  prophets  wished 
And  longed  to  see,  but  missed. 


HENRY  VALGHAN.  199 


The  first  light  they  beheld  was  bright  and  gay, 
And  turned  their  night  to  day  ; 

But  to  this  later  light  they  saw  in  him, 
Their  day  was  dark  and  dun. 


THE     GARLAND. 

WHEN  first  my  youthful,  sinful  age 

Grew  master  of  my  ways. 
Appointing  error  for  my  page, 

And  darkness  for  my  days ; 
I  flung  away,  and  with  full  cry 

Of  wild  affections,  rid 
In  post  for  pleasures,  bent  to  try 

All  gamesters  that  would  bid. 
I  played  with  fire,  did  counsel  spurn, 

Made  life  my  common  stake ; 
But  never  thought  that  fire  would  burn, 

Or  that  a  soul  could  ache. 
Glorious  deceptions,  gilded  mists, 

False  joys,  fantastic  flights, 
Pieces  of  sackcloth  with  silk  lists, 

These  were  my  prime  delights. 
I  sought  choice  bowers,  haunted  the  spring, 

Culled  flowers,  and  made  me  posies ; 
Gave  my  fond  humors  their  full  wing, 

And  crowned  my  head  with  roses. 
But  at  the  height  of  this  career 

I  met  with  a  dead  man, 
Who,  noting  well  my  vain  abear, 

Thus  unto  me  began  : 
Desist,  fond  fool,  be  not  undone, 

What  thou  hast  cut  to-day 
Will  fade  at  night,  and  with  this  sun 

Quite  vanish  and  decay. 


200  HENRY    VAUGIIAN. 


THE     DWELLING-PLACE. 
ST.  JOHN,  CHAP.  I.  VERSES  38,  39. 

"WHAT  happy,  secret  fountain, 
Fair  shade,  or  mountain, 
Whose  undiscovered  virgin  glory 
Boasts  it  this  day,  though  not  in  story, 
Was  then  thy  dwelling  ?  did  some  cloud, 
Fixed  to  a  tent,  descend  and  shroud 
My  distressed  Lord  ?  or  did  a  star, 
Beckoned  by  thee,  though  high  and  far, 
In  sparkling  smiles  haste  gladly  down 
To  lodge  light  and  increase  her  own  ? 
My  dear,  dear  God  !  I  do  not  know 
What  lodged  thee  then,  nor  where,  nor  how ; 
But  I  am  sure  thou  dost  now  come 
Oft  to  a  narrow,  homely  room, 
Where  thou  too  hast  but  the  least  part ; 
My  God,  I  mean  my  sinful  heart. 


HEAVEN     IN     PROSPECT. 

THEY  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

I  alone  sit  lingering  here ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove ; 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days ; 

My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 


HENRY    VAUGHAN.  201 


0  holy  Hope,  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death,  the  jewel  of  the  just, 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark, 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 
But  what  fair  field,  or  grove,  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flame  must  needs  burn  there ; 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gave  room, 
She'd  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee  ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass ; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill, 

Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


HENRY    VAUGHAN. 


THE     WREATH. 

SINCE  I  in  storms  most  used  to  be, 

And  seldom  yielded  flowers, 
How  shall  I  get  a  wreath  for  Thee 

From  these  rude  barren  hours  ? 

The  softer  dressings  of  the  spring, 

Or  summer's  later  store, 
I  will  not  for  thy  temples  bring, 

Which  thorns,  not  roses,  wore ; 

But  a  twined  wreath  of  grief  and  praise, 

Praise  soiled  with  tears,  and  tears  again 

Shining  with  joy,  like  dewy  days, 

This  day  I  bring  for  all  Thy  pain. 


SUNDAYS. 

BRIGHT  shadows  of  true  rest !  some  shoots  of  bliss  ! 

Heaven  once  a  week ; 
The  next  world's  gladness  prepossessed  in  this  ; 

A  day  to  seek 
Eternity  in  time ;  the  steps  by  which 

We  climb  above  all  ages ;  lamps  that  light 
Man  through  his  heap  of  dark  days ;  and  the  rich 
And  full  redemption  of  the  whole  week's  flight : 
The  pulleys  unto  headlong  man  ;  time's  bower ; 

The  narrow  way ; 
Transplanted  paradise  ;  God's  walking  hour ; 

The  cool  o'  the  day ; 
The  creature's  jubilee ;  God's  parle  with  dust ; 

Heaven  here  ;  man  on  those  hills  of  myrrh,  of  flowers ; 
Angels  descending  ;  the  returns  of  trust ; 

A  gleam  of  glory  after  six  days'  showers  ; 
The  Church's  love-feasts  ;  time's  prerogative 


IIEXUY    V  A  UGH  AN.  203 


And  interest 
Deducted  from  the  whole ;  the  combs  and  hive, 

And  home  of  rest ; 

The  milky- way  chalked  out  with  suns ;  a  clue- 
That  guides  through  erring  hours,  and  in  full  story ; 
A  taste  of  heaven  on  earth ;  the  pledge  and  cue 
Of  a  full  feast,  and  the  out-courts  of  glory. 

THE     RETREAT. 

HAPPY  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place, 
Appointed  for  my  second  race ; 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love ; 
And,  looking  back  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound  ; 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense, 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense ; 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
Oh  !  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train ; 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm-trees  ; 
But,  oh !  my  soul,  with  too  much  stay, 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way. 


204  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came  return. 


CHILDHOOD. 

I  CANNOT  reach  it ;  and  my  striving  eye 
Dazzles  at  it,  as  at  eternity. 
Were  now  that  Chronicle  alive, 
Those  white  designs  which  children  drive, 
And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour, 
With  their  content  too  in  my  power, 
Quickly  would  I  make  my  path  even, 
And  by  mere  playing  go  to  Heaven. 

Dear,  harmless  age !  the  short,  swift  span 
Where  weeping  virtue  parts  with  man ; 
Where  love  without  lust  dwells,  and  bends 
What  way  we  please  without  self-ends. 

An  age  of  mysteries  !  which  he 
Must  live  twice  that  would  God's  face  see ; 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play, 
Angels  !  which  foul  men  drive  away. 

How  do  I  study  now,  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  ere  I  studied  man, 
And  only  see  through  a  long  night 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light ! 
0  for  thy  centre  and  mid-day ! 
For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  way  ! 


THE     WORLD. 

I  SAW  eternity  the  other  night, 
Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 
All  calm  as  it  was  bright : 


HENRY  VAUGHAN.  205 


And  round  beneath  it,  time  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres, 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved,  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 
The  doting  lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain ; 
Near  him  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights, — 

Wit  so  delights — 
With  gloves  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of  pleasure ; 

Yet  his  dear  treasure 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 

Upon  a  flower. 

The  darksome  statesman,  hung  with  weights  and  vr<o, 
Like  a  thick  midnight  fog,  moved  there  so  slow, 

He  did  not  stay  nor  go  ; 
Condemning  thoughts  (like  sad  eclipses)  scowl 

Upon  his  soul, 
And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout ; 
Yet  digged  the  mole,  and,  lest  his  ways  be  found, 

Worked  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey, — but  one  did  see 

That  policy. 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him ;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies ; 
It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free. 

The  fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sate  pining  all  his  life  there — did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust ; 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but  lives 

In  fear  of  thieves. 
Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  himself, 

And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf: 
The  downright  epicure  placed  heaven  in  sense, 

And  scorned  pretence ; 
18 


206  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


While  others  slipped  into  a  wide  excess, 

Said  little  less : 
The  weaker  sort  slight,  trivial  wares  enslave, 

Who  think  them  brave ; 
And  poor  despised  truth  sat  counting  by 

Their  victory. 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and  sing, 
And  sing  and  weep,  soared  up  into  the  ring : 

But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
0  fools !  (said  I,)  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light ; 
To  live  in  grots  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day, 

Because  it  shows  the  way — 
The  way  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  God  ; 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  sun,  and  be 

More  bright  than  he. 
But  as  I  did  their  madness  thus  discuss, 

One  whispered  thus : 
"  This  ring  the  Bridegroom  did  for  none  provide, 

But  for  his  Bride." 


PEACE. 

MY  soul  there  is  a  country 

Afar  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  one  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  friend 

And  (0  my  soul  awake !) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN.  207 


If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 
But  One,  who  never  changes, 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 


LOOKING    BACK. 

FAIR,  shining  mountains  of  my  pilgrimage, 

And  flowery  vales,  whose  flowers  were  stars ! 
The  days  and  nights  of  my  first  happy  age. 

An  age  without  distaste  or  wars ! 
When  I  by  thought  ascend  your  sunny  heads, 

And  mind  those  sacred  midnight  lights 
By  which  I  walked,  when  curtained  rooms  and  beds 

Confined  or  sealed  up  others'  sights ; 

O  then,  how  bright,  and  quick  a  light 
Doth  brush  my  heart  and  scatter  night ! 
Chasing  that  shade,  which  my  sins  made, 
While  I  so  spring,  as  if  I  could  not  fade. 
How  brave  a  prospect  is  a  traversed  plain, 

Where  flowers  and  palms  refresh  the  eye ! 
And  days  well  spent  like  the  glad  East  remain, 

Whose  morning  glories  cannot  die. 


208  GEORGE    HERBERT. 


.     GEORGE   HERBERT. 

GEORGE  HERBERT,  a  younger  brother  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury, 
was  born  at  the  castle  of  Montgomery,  in  Wales,  on  the  3d  of  April, 
1593,  and  was  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  of  which  he  became  a  fellow.  In  1619  he  became  the  uni- 
versity orator,  and  he  held  this  office  eight  years.  His  abilities  recom- 
mended him  to  Lord  Bacon  and  to  Bishop  Andrews,  and  the  king  being 
also  pleased  with  him  he  had  hopes  of  rising  at  court ;  but  the  death  of 
James  and  other  causes  having  induced  his  disappointment,  in  this 
quarter,  he  retired  into  Kent,  where  he  lived  with  great  privacy,  and 
taking  a  survey  of  his  past  life,  determined  to  devote  his  remaining 
years  to  religion ;  in  his  own  words, "  to  consecrate  all  my  learning  and 
all  my  abilities  to  advance  tho  glory  of  that  God  which  gave  them, 
knowing  that  I  can  never  do  too  much  for  Him  that  hath  dr.ne  so  much 
for  me  as  to  make  m3  a  Christian."  He  took  orders,  was  married,  and 
after  a  few  years  was  presented  with  the  living  of  Bemerton,  near 
Salisbury,  into  which  he  was  inducted  in  1630.  Here  he  passed  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  the  duties  of  a  parish 
minister,  as  delineated  by  himself  in  "  The  Country  Parson,"  and  by 
Izaak  Walton  in  his  pleasant  biography.  He  died,  of  consumption,  in 
February,  1632.  Herbert's  "  Temple,  or  Sacred  Poems,"  have  been 
many  times  reprinted  in  England  and  in  this  country.  Its  popularity 
when  first  published  was  so  great  that  when  Walton  wrote,  more  than 
twenty  thousand  copies  of  it  had  been  sold.  Baxter  says  :  "  I  must 
confess  that  next  the  Scripture  Poems,  there  are  none  so  savory  to  me 
as  our  George  Herbert's.  I  know  that  Cowley  and  others  far  excel 
Herbert  in  wit  and  accurate  composure  ;  but  as  Seneca  takes  with  me 
above  all  his  contemporaries,  because  he  speaketh  by  words  feelingly 
and  soriously,  like  a  man  that  is  past  jest,  so  Herbert  speaks  to  God, 
like  a  man  that  really  believeth  in  God,  and  whose  business  in  the 
world  is  most  with  God :  heart-work  and  heaven-work  make  up  his 
books."  Coleridge,  the  best  of  critics,  alludes  to  Herbert  as  "the 
model  of  a  man,  a  gentleman,  and  a  clergyman,"  and  adds,  that  "  the 
quaintness  of  some  of  his  thoughts  (not  of  his  diction,  than  which 
nothing  could  be  more  pure,  manly,  and  unaffected)  has  blinded  modern 
readers  to  the  great  general  merit  of  his  poems,  which  are  for  the 
most  part  excellent  in  their  kind." 


GEORGE    HERBERT.  209 


THE     COLLAR. 

I  STRUCK  the  board,  and  cried,  "  No  more ! 

I  will  abroad. 

What !  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free — free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store ; 
Shall  I  be  still  in  suit  ? 
Have  I  no  harvest,  but  a  thorn 
To  let  my  blood  ;  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit  ? 

Sure  there  was  wine 

Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it ;  there  was  corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it ; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me  ? 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it  ? 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  ?  all  blasted  ? 

All  wasted  ? 
Not  so,  my  heart !  but  there  is  fruit 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-flown  age 
On  double  pleasures  :  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not :  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands, 

Which  petty  thoughts  have  made,  and  made  to  thee 
Good  cable  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 
While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see : 

Away !  take  heed ! 

I  will  abroad, 

Call  in  thy  death's  head  there :  tie  up  thy  fears. 
He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need, 

Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved,  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 

.   At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "  Child !" 

And  I  replied,  "My  Lord  !:' 
18* 


210  GEORGE    HERBERT. 


VIRTUE. 

SWEET  day !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to  night ; 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  the  grave  ; 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, — 
My  music  shows  you  have  your  closes, 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul 

Like  seasoned  timber  never  gives  ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  a  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE    a  u  i  P  . 

THE  merry  world  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 

To  meet  together  where  I  lay, 

And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose, 

Which  when  I  plucked  not,  "  Sir,"  said  she, 
"  Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those  ?" 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  Money  came  :  and,  chinking  still, 

"  What  tune  is  this,  poor  man  ?"  said  he ; 

"  I  heard  in  music  you  had  skill :" 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 


GEORUE    HERBERT.  211 


Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by, 

In  silks  that  whistled  "  who  but  he  ?" 

He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye  : 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversation, 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be ; 

And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration : 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 

To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come, 

Speak  not  at  large ;  say,  I  am  thine  ; 

And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 


BUSINESS. 

CANST  be  idle,  canst  thou  play 
Foolish  soul,  who  sinned  to-day  ? 
Rivers  run,  and  springs  each  one 
Know  their  home,  and  get  them  gone : 
Hast  thou  tears,  or  hast  thou  none  ? 

If,  poor  soul,  thou  hast  no  tears, 
Wouldst  thou  had  no  fault  or  fears  ! 
Who  hath  those,  those  ills  forbears  ! 

Winds  still  work,  it  is  their  plot 

Be  the  season  cold  or  hot : 

Hast  thou  sighs,  or  hast  thou  not  ? 

If  thou  hast  no  sighs  or  groans, 
Would  thou  hadst  no  flesh  and  bones  : 
Lesser  pains  'scape  greater  ones. 

But  if  yet  thou  idle  be, 
Foolish  soul,  who  died  for  thee  ? 
Who  did  leave  his  Father's  throne. 


212  GEORGE    HERBERT. 


To  assume  thy  flesh  and  bone  ? 
Had  He  life,  or  had  He  none  ? 

If  He  had  not  lived  for  thee 
Thou  hadst  died  most  wretchedly ; 
And  two  deaths  had  been  thy  fee. 

He  so  far  thy  good  did  plot, 
That  his  own  self  He  forgot — 
Did  He  die,  or  did  He  not  ? 

If  He  had  not  died  for  thee 

Thou  hadst  lived  in  misery — 

Two  lives  worse  than  two  deaths  be. 

And  hath  any  space  of  breath 
'Twixt  his  sins  and  Saviour's  death  ? 
He  that  loseth  gold,  though  dross, 
Tells  to  all  he  meets,  his  cross — 
He  that  hath  sins,  hath  he  no  loss  ? 

He  that  finds  a  silver  vein 
Thinks  on  it,  and  thinks  again — 
Brings  thy  Saviour's  death  no  gain  ? 
Who  in  heart  not  ever  kneels, 
Neither  sin  nor  Saviour  fee!s. 


PEACE. 

SWEET -Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell  ?    I  humbly  crave 

Let  me  once  know. 
I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave, 

And  asked  if  peace  were  there, 
A  hollow  wind  did  seem  to  answer,  "  No  ! 
Go  seek  elsewhere." 

I  did  ; — and  going,  did  a  rainbow  note 

Surely,  thought  I, 
This  is  the  lace  of  Peace's  coat : 


GEORGE    HERBERT.  213 


I  will  search  out  the  matter. 
But  while  I  looked,  the  clouds  immediately 
Did  break  and  scatter. 

Then  went  I  to  a  garden,  and  did  spy 

A  gallant  flower, 
The  crown  imperial.     "  Sure,"  said  I, 

"  Peace  at  the  root  must  dwell." 
But  when  I  digged  I  saw  a  worm  devour 
What  showed  so  well. 

At  length  I  met  a  reverend  good  old  man ; 

Whom  when  for  peace 
I  did  demand,  he  thus  began  : 

"  There  was  a  prince  of  old 
At  Salem  dwelt,  who  lived  with  good  increase 
Of  flock  and  fold. 

"  He  sweetly  lived  ;  yet  sweetness  did  not  save 

His  life  from  foes, 
But  after  death  out  -of  his  grave 

There  sprang  twelve  stalks  of  wheat : 
Which  many  wond'ring  at,  got  some  of  those 
To  plant  and  set. 

"  It  prospered  strangely,  and  did  soon  disperse 

Through  all  the  earth ; 
For  they  that  taste  it  do  rehearse, 
That  virtues  lie  therein  ; 
A  secret  virtue,  bringing  peace  and  mirth, 
By  flight  of  sin. 

"  Take  of  this  grain  which  in  my  garden  grows, 

And  grows  for  you  : 
Make  bread  of  it ;  and  that  repose, 

And  peace  which  everywhere 
With  so  much  earnestness  you  do  pursue, 
Is  only  there." 


214  THOMAS    RANDOLPH. 


GRACE. 

MY  stock  lies  dead,  and  no  increase 
Doth  my  dull  husbandry  improve ; 
0,  let  Thy  graces,  without  cease, 

Drop  from  above ! 

If  still  the  sun  should  hide  his  face, 
Thy  house  would  but  a  dungeon  prove, 
Thy  works  night's  captives  ;  0,  let  grace 
Drop  from  above ! 

The  dew  doth  every  morning  fall, 
And  shall  the  dew  outstrip  Thy  dove  ? 
The  dew  for  which  grass  cannot  call 
Drop  from  above ! 

O  come,  for  Thou  dost  know  the  way, 
Or,  if  to  me  Thou  will  not  move, 
Remove  me  where  I  need  not  say, 

Drop  from  above ! 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 

THIS  poet  was  the  adopted  son  of  Jonson.  At  an  early  age  his  ge- 
nius and  acquirements  gave  promises  of  literary  eminence,  which  were 
unhappily  frustrated  by  a  premature  death.  In  his  remains  we  find 
traces  of  true  poetic  taste,  and  a  fine  fancy.  He  was  born  in  1605, 
and  died  in  1634. 

AN     ECLOGUE. 
(OCCASIONED  BY  TWO  DOCTORS  DISPUTING  UPON  PREDESTINATION*) 

CORYDON. 

Ho  !  jolly  Thyrsis,  whither  in  such  haste  ? 
Is't  for  a  wager  that  you  run  so  fast  ? 
Or,  past  your  hour,  below  yon  hawthorn-tree 
Does  longing  Galatea  look  for  thee  ? 


THOMAS    RANDOLPH.  215 


THYRSIS. 

No,  Corydon,  I  heard  young  Daphnis  say, 
Alexis  challenged  Tityrus  to-day, 
Who  best  shall  sing  of  shepherd's  art  and  praise  : 
But  hark  !  I  hear  them  ;  listen  to  their  lays. 

TITYRUS. 

Alexis,  read  ;  what  means  this  mystic  thing  ? 
An  ewe  I  had  two  lambs  at  once  did  bring ; 
The  one  black  as  jet,  the  other  white  as  snow  ; 
Say,  in  just  Providence  how  it  could  be  so  ? 

ALEXIS. 

Will  you  Pan's  goodness  therefore  partial  call, 
That  might  as  well  have  given  thee  none  at  all  ? 

TITYRUS. 

Were  they  not  both  yeaned  by  the  self-same  ewe  ? 
How  could  they  merit  then  so  different  hue  ? 
Poor  lamb,  alas !  and  couldst  thou,  yet  unborn, 
Sin  to  deserve  the  guilt  of  such  a  scorn  ! 
Thou  hadst  not  yet  fouled  a  religious  spring, 
Nor  fed  on  plots  of  hallowed  grass,  to  bring 
Stains  to  thy  fleece  ;  nor  browsed  upon  a  tree 
Sacred  to  Pan  or  Pales'  deity. 
The  gods  are  ignorant  if  they  not  foreknow, 
And,  knowing,  'tis  unjust  to  use  thee  so. 

ALEXIS. 

Tityrus,  with  me  contend,  or  Corydon  ; 
But  let  the  gods  and  their  high  wills  alone : 
For  in  our  flocks  that  freedom  challenge  we  ; 
This  kid  is  sacrificed,  and  that  goes  free. 

TITYRUS. 

j*  eed  where  you  will,  my  lambs  ;  what  boots  it  us 
To  watch  and  water,  fold,  and  drive  you  thus : 
This  on  the  barren  mountains  flesh  can  glean, 
That  fed  in  flowery  pastures  will  be  lean. 


216  THOMAS    RANDOLPH. 


ALEXIS. 

Plough,  sow,  and  compass,  nothing  boots  at  all, 
Unless  the  dew  upon  the  tilths  do  fall. 
So  labor,  silly  shepherds,  what  we  can : 
All's  vain,  unless  a  blessing  drop  from  Pan. 

TITYRUS. 
Ill  thrive  thy  ewes,  if  thou  these  lies  maintain. 

ALEXIS. 

And  may  thy  goats  miscarry,  saucy  swain. 

THTRSIS. 

Fie,  shepherds,  fie !  while  you  these  strifes  begin, 

Here  creeps  the  wolf,  and  there  the  fox  gets  in ; 

To  your  vain  piping  on  so  deep  a  reed 

The  lambkins  listen,  but  forget  to  feed. 

It  gentle  swains  befits  of  love  to  sing, 

How  Love  left  heaven,  and  heaven's  immortal  King, 

His  co-eternal  Father  :  oh  !  admire, 

Love  is  a  son  as  ancient  as  his  sire  ; 

His  mother  was  a  virgin  :  how  could  come 

A  birth  so  great,  and  from  so  chaste  a  womb  ? 

His  cradle  was  a  manger  :  shepherds,  see, 

True  faith  delights  in  poor  simplicity. 

He  pressed  no  grapes,  nor  pruned  the  fruitful  vine, 

But  could  of  water  make  a  brisker  wine  ; 

Nor  did  He  plough  the  earth,  and  to  his  barn 

The  harvest  bring ;  nor  thresh  and  grind  the  corn. 

Without  all  these  Love  could  supply  our  need, 

And  with  five  loaves  five  thousand  hungry  feed. 

More  wonders  did  He  ;  for  all  which  suppose 

How  He  was  crowned  with  lily  or  with  rose, 

The  winding  ivy,  or  the  glorious  bay, 

Or  myrtle,  with  the  which  Venus,  they  say, 

Girts  her  proud  temples  !    Shepherds,  none  of  them ; 

But  wore,  poor  head  !  a  thorny  diadem. 

Feet  to  the  lame  He  gave  ;  with  which  they  ran 


THOMAS    RANDOLPH.  217 


To  work  their  surgeon's  last  destruction  : 
The  blind  from  Him  had  eyes ;  but  used  that  light 
Like  basilisks,  to  kill  Him  with  their  sight. 
Lastly,  he  was  betrayed  (oh  !  sing  of  this) — 
How  Love  could  be  betrayed !  'twas  with  a  kiss. 
And  then,  his  innocent  hands  and  guiltless  feet 
Were  nailed  unto  the  cross,  striving  to  meet 
In  his  spread  arms  his  spouse  :  so  mild  in  show, 
He  seemed  to  court  the  embraces  of  his  foe. 
Through  his  pierced  side,  through  which  a  spear  was  sent, 
A  torrent  of  all-flowing  balsam  went. 
Run,  Amaryllis,  run  :  one  drop  from  thence 
Cures  thy  sad  soul,  and  drives  all  anguish  hence. 
Go,  sun-burnt  Thessylis,  go  and  repair 
Thy  beauty  lost,  and  be  again  made  fair. 
Love-sick  Amyntas,  get  a  philtrum  here, 
To  make  thee  lovely  to  thy  truly  dear ; 
But,  coy  Licoris,  take  the  pearl  from  thine, 
And  take  the  blood-shot  from  Alexis'  eyne. 
Wear  this  an  amulet  'gainst  all  syrens'  smiles, 
The  stings  of  snakes,  and  tears  of  crocodiles. 
Now  Love  is  dead  ; — Oh  !  no,  He  never  dies  ; 
Three  days  He  sleeps,  and  then  again  doth  rise, 
(Like  fair  Aurora  from  the  eastern  bay,) 
And  with  his  beams  drives  all  our  clouds  away. 
This  pipe  unto  our  flocks  ;  this  sonnet  get, 
But,  lo  !  I  see,  the  sun  ready  to  set : 
Good-night  to  all :  for  the  great  night  is  come  : 
Flocks,  to  your  folds  ;  and  shepherds,  hie  you  home  ; 
To-morrow  morning,  when  we  all  have  slept, 
Pan's  cornet's  flown,  and  the  great  sheepshear's  kept. 
19 


218  RICHARD    BAXTER. 


RICHARD  BAXTER. 

THIS  eminent  author  was  born  in  1615.  He  was  a  Presbyterian, 
and  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  voluminous  of  the  religious  writers  of 
England.  In  1685  he  was  tried  before  the  notorious  Judge  Jeffries, 
by  whom  he  was  grossly  insulted,  and  sentenced  to  fine  and  imprison- 
ment ;  but  the  punishment  was  shortly  after  remitted  by  the  king. 
He  died  in  1691.  The  "  Saints'  Everlasting  Rest"  is  the  best  known 
of  Baxter's  works.  His  poems,  originally  published  in  1681,  under 
the  title  of"  Poetical  Fragments,"  were  last  printed  by  William  Pick- 
ering, London,  1821. 

WISDOM. 

HE  that  by  faith  sees  not  the  world  of  spirits, 
Which  Christ  with  his  blessed  family  inherits ; 
The  sense  of  Providence  can  never  know, 
Nor  judge  aright  of  any  thing  below. 

Things  seem  confused  and  neglected  here, 
Because  in  broken  parcels  they  appear  ; 
Who  knows  a  work  in  arras  by  one  piece  ? 
Small  parcels  show  not  workmen's  artifice. 
The  beauty  of  a  picture  is  not  known, 
When  one  small  part,  or  limb  alone  is  shown 
They  that  on  some  few  letters  only  look, 
Can  never  know  the  meaning  of  God's  book. 
Who  knows  a  stately  building  by  one  post  ? 
It's  but  short  scraps  that  one  age  sees  at  most. 

Heaven  seeth  all,  and  therefore  knows  the  sense 
Of  the  whole  beauteous  frame  of  Providence. 
His  judgment  of  God's  kingdom  needs  must  fail, 
Who  knows  no  more  of  it  than  this  dark  jail : 
If  heaven  and  hell  were  open  to  men's  sight, 
Most  men  of  pleasant  things  would  judge  aright. 

Who  would  be  grieved  at  prosperous  sinners'  reign, 
Who  did  foresee  their  everlasting  pain  ? 


RICHARD    BAXTER.  219 


Who  would  grudge  pride  and  rage  so  short  a  power, 
Who  did  foresee  its  fall,  and  dismal  hour  ? 
Who'd  grudge  God's  patience  to  the  greatest  crime, 
Which  will  'scape  vengeance  for  so  short  a  time  ? 
Who'd  grudge  at  any  wrong  or  suffering  here, 
Who  saw  the  world  of  happiness  so  near  ? 

If  that  one  sun  a  thousand  fold  excel 
This  earth  in  bigness,  where  we  sinners  dwell ; 
(And  what's  one  sun  to  all  the  heaven  beside  ?) 
Is  not  God's  kingdom  glorious  and  wide  ? 
Who  then  dare  say,  God's  work  is  not  well  done, 
Because  an  ant-hill  is  not  made  a  sun  ? 
Or  because  sin  and  devilish  rage  do  dwell, 
In  this  vile  prison  which  is  next  to  hell  ? 
Who'd  measure  God's  great  kingdom  or  his  love, 
By  us  poor  prisoners  who  in  fetters  move  ? 

God  placed  man  in  earthly  paradise, 
Heaven's  outward  court,  the  way  to  highest  bliss. 
A  man  himself  doing  what  God  forbade, 
His  house  a  bedlam  and  a  bridewell  made ; 
Man  turned  it  by  his  sinful  base  defection, 
Into  God's  prison  and  house  of  correction. 
God's  wondrous  mercies  which  do  never  fail, 
Fetch  many  sons  to  heaven  out  of  this  jail. 

If  the  rest  finally  neglect  God's  grace, 
And  choose  no  better  than  this  sinful  place, 
The  dream  of  pleasure  which  will  end  in  shame, 
They  had  their  choice,  and  whom  else  can  they  blame  ? 

Who'd  censure  God  for  one  poor  bedlam's  sake, 
But  such  as  of  his  madness  do  partake  ? 
And  though  he  rage,  and  sober  men  disdains, 
Who  loves  his  case,  or  longeth  for  his  chains  ? 

Who  envy  wicked  men  their  hurting  power, 
Who  do  believe  their  sad  approaching  hour  ? 
Who  the  toad's  hurtful  venom  envieth? 
Who'd  have  the  basilisk's  pernicious  breath  ? 
Who  longs  to  be  a  serpent  for  the  sting  ? 
It's  worse  to  be  a  great,  but  hurtful  king. 


220  RICHARD    BAXTER. 


Christians  by  patience  win  a  better  crown, 
Than  all  the  bloody  conquerors'  renown. 
True  Christian  kings,  who  rule  in  peace  and  love, 
A  better  kingdom  have  with  Christ  above. 
Our  king  may  with  more  peace  and  safety  rule, 
Than  the  great  Turk,  Tartarian,  or  Mogul. 

No  king  so  mighty  as  the  devil  is, 
Nor  hath  dominion  so  large  as  his. 
Yet  would  no  wise  man  such  a  devil  be, 
That  he  might  be  as  powerful  as  he ; 
If  any  would  be  such,  his  own  desire 
Makes  him  a  devil  fitted  for  hell-fire. 
Madness  called  wisdom  is,  and  rules  in  chief, 
With  all  that  cannot  see  beyond  this  life  : 
To  them  that  see  not  beyond  flesh  and  blood, 
And  taste  no  better  than  these  senses'  food ; 
That  know  not  the  true  everlasting  good, 
Nothing  on  earth  is  rightly  understood. 

The  heavenly  light  must  open  sinners'  eyes, 
Before  they  ever  will  be  truly  wise  : 
One  real  prospect  of  the  life  to  come, 
A  true  belief  whither  men's  souls  are  gone, 
Would  more  felicitating  wisdom  give, 
Than  foolish,  sensual  men  will  now  believe. 

Call  not  that  wisdom  which  will  end  in  shame, 
Which  undoes  him  who  by  it  wins  the  game  : 
A  wit  that  can  deceive  himself  and  others, 
Wit  to  destroy  his  own  soul,  and  his  brothers' : 
Wit  that  can  prove  that  sin's  a  harmless  thing, 
That  sin's  no  sin,  or  no  great  hurt  will  bring  ; 
That  with  the  serpent  can  give  God  the  lie, 
And  say,  believe  not  God,  you  shall  not  die. 
Wit  that  can  prove  that  God  speaks  but  in  jest, 
That  fleshly  pleasure  is  man's  best. 
Wit  that  can  prove  God's  wisdom  is  deceived, 
And  sacred  Scriptures  should  not  be  received. 
Wit  to  confute  God's  word,  reject  his  grace, 
Lose  time,  sin  boldly,  post  towards  hell  apace. 


RICHARD    BA.vT^il.  221 


Defend  the  devil's  cause,  his  own  damnation, 
Slight  God,  neglect  a  Saviour  and  salvation. 
Call  not  that  wisdom,  which  men  would  disown, 
And  wish  at  last  that  they  had  never  known, 
To  go  with  honor,  ease,  and  sport  to  hell, 
And  there  with  shame  and  late  repentance  dwell ! 
Truth  is  for  goodness,  wisdom's  use  and  end. 
To  which  true  learning  and  just  studies  tend, 
Is  that  this  may  be  throughly  understood, 
"  To  be  good,  do  good,  and  get  endless  good." 
False  wit  employed  in  hurting  other  men, 
Writes  :ts  own  death  in  blood,  with  its  own  pen  : 
It  forceth  many  to  their  self-defence, 
Who  fain  would  live  in  quiet  innocence. 

Kites,  foxes,  wolves,  have  wit  to  catch  then*  prey, 
Yet  harmless  sheep  live  quieter  than  they ; 
Men  ke^p  their  flocks  that  they  may  multiply, 
So  that  few  by  wolves  and  lions  die  ; 
But  hurtful  ravenous  beasts  all  men  pursue, 
While  all  destroy  them,  there  remains  but  few. 

Some  slight  God's  word  because  weak  men  abuse  it. 
What's  law  or  reason  then,  when  all  misuse  it  ? 
Men  will  not  despise  God,  nor  sin,  nor  die, 
But  they  will  give  a  learned  reason  why. 
What  is  so  false,  which  wit  cannot  defend, 
And  that  by  volumes  confidently  penned  ? 
Reason  can  justify  the  greatest  wrong, 
The  basest  lie  can  hire  a  learned  tongue. 
What  cause  so  vile  that  cannot  wit  suborn  ? 
Men  will  not  without  reason  be  forsworn. 
Reason  can  make  rogues  of  the  best  of  men, 
And  make  a  church  of  saints  a  serpents'  den ; 
Can  make  usurping  Lucifer  a  saint, 
And  holy  martyrs  like  to  devils  paint. 
Even  reverend  wit,  can  by  transforming  skill, 
Make  heretics,  and  schismatics  at  will ; 
It  can  prove  white  is  black,  and  black  is  white ; 
That  night  is  day,  and  grossest  darkness  light. 
19* 


222 


KiCIIARD    BAXTER. 


Say  what  you  will,  reason  can  prove  it  true, 
What  is't  that  drunken  reason  cannot  do  ? 

How  rare  is  that  blest  place,  that  age  or  season, 
Which  may  not  own  this  charactei  of  reason  ? 
And  must  we  therefore  brutishness  prefer, 
Because  well-used  reason  is  so  rare  ? 
But  when  the  drunken  phrensy  fit  is  gone, 
And  devils  their  deceiving  work  have  done  ; 
When  death  the  dreaming  sinner  doth  awake, 
0  what  a  dreadful  change  doth  God  then  make  ? 
Then  wise  men  only  are  the  pure  and  just, 
Who  Christ,  who  God  obey,  and  in  him  trust. 


A     PSALM     OF     PRAISE. 

YE  holy  angels  bright, 

Which  stand  before  God's  throne, 
And  dwell  in  glorious  light, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  each  one. 
You  there  so  nigh 
Are  much  more  meet 
Than  we  the  feet, 
For  things  so  high. 

You  blessed  souls  at  rest, 

That  see  your  Saviour's  face, 
Whose  glory,  even  the  least, 
Is  far  above  our  grace  ; 
God's  praises  found, 
As  in  his  sight, 
With  sweet  delight 
You  do  abound. 

All  nations  of  the  earth, 

Extol  the  world's  great  King  ; 
With  melody  and  mirth, 

His  glorious  praises  sing. 


RICHARD    BAXTER.  223 


For  he  still  reigns, 
And  will  bring  low, 
The  proudest  foe, 

That  him  disdains. 

Sing  forth  Jehovah's  praise, 

Ye  saints  that  on  him  call : 
Magnify  him  always, 

His  holy  churches  all : 
In  him  rejoice  ; 

And  there  proclaim 
His  holy  name, 
With  sounding  voice. 

My  soul,  bear  thou  thy  part : 
Triumph  in  God  above  ; 
With  a  well-tuned  heart, 

Sing  thou  the  songs  of  love. 
Thou  art  his  own, 
Whose  precious  blood 
Shed  for  thy  good, 
His  love  made  known. 

He  did  in  love  begin, 

Renewing  thee  by  grace, 
Forgiving  all  thy  sin, 

Showed  thee  his  pleased  face. 
He  did  thee  heal 
By  his  Son's  merit, 
And  by  his  Spirit 
For  glory  seal. 

In  saddest  thoughts  and  grief, 

In  sickness,  fears,  and  pain, 
I  cried  for  his  relief, 

And  it  was  not  in  vain. 
He  heard  with  speed  ; 
And  still  I  found 
Mercy  abound, 
In  time  of  need. 


224  RICHARD  BAXTER. 


Let  not  his  praises  grow 

On  prosperous  heights  alone ; 
But  in  the  vales  below, 

Let  his  great  love  be  known. 
Let  no  distress 
Curb  and  control 
My  winged  soul, 
And  praise  suppress. 

Let  not  the  fear  or  smart 
Of  his  chastising  rod, 
Take  off  my  fervent  heart 

From  praising  my  dear  God. 
Whatever  I  feel, 
Still  let  me  bring 
This  offering, 
And  to  him  kneel. 

Though  I  lose  friends  and  wealth, 

And  bear  reproach  and  shame  ; 
Though  I  lose  ease  and  health, 

Still  let  me  praise  God's  name. 
That  fear  and  pain, 
Which  would  destroy 
My  thanks  and  joy, 
Do  thou  restrain. 

Though  human  help  depart, 

And  flesh  draw  near  to  dust ; 
Let  faith  keep  up  my  heart, 

To  love  God  true  and  just : 
And  all  my  days 
Let  no  disease 
Cause  me  to  cease 
His  joyful  praise. 

Though  sin  would  make  me  doubt, 
And  fill  my  soul  with  fears, 

Though  God  seems  to  shut  out 
My  daily  cries  and  tears  : 


RICHARD    BAXTER.  225 


By  no  such  frost 
Of  sad  delays, 
Let  thy  sweet  praise 

Be  nipped  and  lost. 

Away,  distrustful  care ! 

I  have  thy  promise,  Lord, 
To  banish  all  despair, 

I  have  thy  oath  and  word. 
And  therefore  I 
Shall  see  thy  face, 
And  there  thy  grace 
Shall  magnify. 

Though  sin  and  death  conspire, 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  praise, 
Still  towards  thee  I'll  aspire, 

And  thou  dull  hearts  canst  raise. 
Open  thy  door ; 

And  when  grim  death 
Shall  stop  this  breath, 
I'll  praise  thee  more. 

With  thy  triumphant  flock 

Then  I  shall  numbered  be, 
Built  on  th'  eternal  rock, 
His  glory  we  shall  see. 
The  heavens  so  high, 
With  praise  shall  ring, 
And  all  shall  sing 
In  harmony. 

The  sun  is  but  a  spark 

From  the  eternal  light : 
Its  brightest  beams  are  dark 

To  that  most  glorious  sight : 
There  the  whole  choir, 
With  one  accord, 
Shall  praise  the  Lord 
For  evermore. 


226  BJCHARD    BAXTER. 


THE     VALEDICTION 

VAIN  world,  what  is  in  thee  ? 
Wha.t  do  poor  mortals  see 
Which  should  esteemed  be 

Worthy  their  pleasure  ? 
Is  it  the  mother's  womb, 
Or  sorrows  which  soon  come, 
Or  a  dark  grave  and  tomb 

Which  is  their  treasure  ? 
How  dost  thou  man  deceive 

By  thy  vain  glory, 
Why  do  they  still  believe 

Thy  false  history  ? 

Is't  children's  book  and  rod, 
The  laborer's  heavy  load, 
Poverty  undertrod 

The  world  desireth  ? 
Is  it  distracting  cares, 
Or  heart- tormenting  fears, 
Or  pining  grief  and  tears, 

Which  man  requireth  ? 
Or  is  it  youthful  rage, 

Or  childish  toying  ? 
Or  is  decrepit  age 

Worth  man's  enjoying  ? 

Is  it  deceitful  wealth, 

Got  by  care,  fraud,  or  stealth, 

Or  short,  uncertain  health, 

Which  thus  befool  men  ? 
Or  do  the  serpent's  lies, 
By  the  world's  flatteries 
And  tempting  vanities, 

Still  overrule  them  ? 


RICHARD    BAXTER.  227 


Or  do  they  in  a  dream 
Sleep  out  their  season  ? 

Or  borne  down  by  lust's  stream, 
Which  conquers  reason  ? 

The  silly  lambs  to-day 
Pleasantly  skip  and  play, 
Whom  butchers  mean  to  slay, 

Perhaps  to-morrow ; 
In  a  more  brutish  sort, 
Do  careless  sinners  sport, 
Or  in  dead  sleep  still  snort, 

As  near  to  sorrow  ; 
Till  life,  not  well  begun, 

Be  sadly  ended, 
And  the  web  they  have  spun, 

Can  ne'er  be  mended. 

What  is  the  time  that's  gone, 
And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 
Is  it  not  now  as  none  ? 

The  present  stays  not. 
Tune  posteth,  oh  how  fast ! 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste. 
None  can  call  back  what's  past, 

Judgment  delays  not ; 
Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 

Sinners  awake  not, 
Because  hell's  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a  vain  show, 
They  know,  yet  will  not  know  ; 
Sit  still  when  they  should  go ; 

But  run  for  shadows : 
While  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow, 
And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow, 

In  Christ's  sweet  meadows. 


228  RICHARD    BAXTER. 


Life's  better  slept  away, 

Than  as  they  use  it ; 
In  sin  and  drunken  play, 

Vain  men  abuse  it. 

Malignant  world,  adieu ! 
Where  no  foul  vice  is  new, 
Only  to  Satan  true, 

God  still  offended  ; 
Though  taught  and  warned  by  God, 
And  his  chastising  rod, 
Keeps  still  the  way  that's  broad, 

Never  amended. 
Baptismal  vows  some  make, 

But  ne'er  perform  them  ; 
If  angels  from  Heaven  spake, 

'Twould  not  reform  them. 

They  dig  for  hell  beneath, 
They  labor  hard  for  death, 
Run  themselves  out  of  breath 

To  overtake  it. 
Hell  is  not  had  for  naught, 
Damnation's  dearly  bought, 
And  with  great  labor  sought, 

They'll  not  forsake  it. 
Their  souls  are  Satan's  fee, 

He'll  not  abate  it. 
Grace  is  refused  that's  free, 

Mad  sinners  hate  it. 

Vile  man  is  so  perverse, 
It's  too  rough  work  for  verse 
His  badness  to  rehearse, 

And  show  his  folly  : 
He'll  die  at  any  rates, 
He  God  and  conscience  hates, 
Yet  sin  he  consecrates, 

And  calls  it  holy  : 


RICHARD    BAXTER.  229 


The  grace  he'll  not  endure, 
Which  would  renew  him  : 

Constant  to  all,  and  sure, 
Which  will  undo  him. 

His  head  comes  first  at  birth, 
And  takes  root  hi  the  earth, 
As  nature  shooteth  forth, 

His  feet  grow  highest ; 
To  kick  at  all  above, 
And  spurn  at  saving  love ; 
His  God  is  in  his  grove, 

Because  it's  nighest. 
He  loves  this  world  of  strife, 

Hates  that  would  mend  it ; 
Love's  death  that's  called  life, 

Fears  what  would  end  it. 

All  that  is  good  he'd  crush, 
Blindly  on  sin  doth  rush, 
A  pricking  thorny  bush, 

Such  Christ  was  crowned  with  : 
Their  worship's  like  to  this, 
The  reed,  the  Judas  kiss, 
Such  the  religion  is, 

That  these  abound  with ; 
They  mock  Christ  with  the  knee 

Whene'er  they  bow  it ; 
As  if  God  did  not  see 

The  heart,  and  know  it. 

Of  good  they  choose  the  least, 
Despise  that  which  is  best, 
The  joyful,  heavenly  feast, 

Which  Christ  would  give  them ; 
Heaven  hath  scarce  one  cold  wish, 
They  live  unto  the  flesh, 
Like  swine  they  feed  on  wash, 

Satan  doth  drive  them. 
20 


230  RICHARD    BAXTER. 


Like  weeds  they  grow  in  mire, 
Which  vices  nourish ; 

Where  warmed  by  Satan's  fire, 
All  sins  do  flourish. 

Is  this  the  world  men  choose, 
For  which  they  heaven  refuse, 
And  Christ  and  grace  abuse, 

And  not  receive  it  ? 
Shall  I  not  guilty  be 
Of  this  in  some  degree, 
If  hence  God  would  me  free, 

And  I'd  not  leave  it  ? 
My  soul,  from  Sodom  fly, 

Lest  wrath  there  find  thee  : 
Thy  refuge-rest  is  nigh, 

Look  not  behind  thee. 

There's  none  of  this  ado, 
None  of  the  hellish  crew, 
God's  promise  is  most  true, 

Boldly  believe  it. 
My  friends  are  gone  before, 
And  I  am  near  the  shore, 
My  soul  stands  at  the  door, 

0  Lord,  receive  it. 
It  trusts  Christ  and  his  merits, 

The  dead  he  raises  : 
Join  it  with  blessed  spirits, 

Who  sing  thy  praises. 


JOHN    aUARLES.  231 


JOHN  QUARLES, 

A  SON  of  Francis  Quarles,  inherited  much  of  his  father's  character 
and  genius.  He  was  educated  by  Archbishop  Usher,  upon  whose 
death  he  wrote  an  elegy,  beginning  with  these  beautiful  lines : 

"  Then  weep  no  more  ;  see  how  his  peaceful  breast, 
Rocked  by  the  hand  of  death,  takes  quiet  rest. 
Disturb  him  not ;  but  let  him  sweetly  take 
A  full  repose  ;  he  hath  been  long  awake." 

He  was  for  some  time  engaged  in  the  civil  wars,  travelled  abroad,  and 
returning  to  London,  died  of  the  plague  in  1665. 


HYMN. 

GREAT  GOD,  whose  sceptre  rules  the  earth, 

Distil  thy  fear  into  my  heart, 
That,  being  rapt  with  holy  mirth, 

I  may  proclaim  how  good  thou  art : 
Open  my  lips,  that  I  may  sing 
Full  praises  to  my  God,  my  King. 

Great  God,  thy  garden  is  defaced, 
The  weeds  thrive  there,  the  flowers  decay ; 

0  call  to  mind  thy  promise  past, 
Restore  thou  them,  cut  these  away  : 

Till  then  let  not  the  weeds  have  power 

To  starve  or  stint  the  poorest  flower. 

In  all  extremes,  Lord,  thou  art  still 
The  mount  whereto  my  hopes  do  flee ; 

0  make  my  soul  detest  all  ill, 

Because  so  much  abhorred  by  Thee : 

Lord,  let  thy  gracious  trials  show 

That  I  am  just,  or  make  me  so. 


232  JOHN    ClUARLES. 


Shall  mountain,  desert,  beast,  and  tree, 
Yield  to  that  heavenly  voice  of  thine  ; 

And  shall  that  voice  not  startle  me, 

Nor  stir  this  stone — this  heart  of  mine  ? 

No,  Lord,  till  Thou  new-bore  mine  ear, 

Thy  voice  is  lost,  I  cannot  hear. 

Fountain  of  light,  and  living  breath, 
Whose  mercies  never  fail  nor  fade, 

Fill  me  with  life  that  hath  no  death, 
Fill  me  with  light  that  hath  no  shade ; 

Appoint  the  remnant  of  my  days 

To  see  thy  power,  and  sing  thy  praise. 

Lord,  God  of  gods,  before  whose  throne 
Stand  storms  and  fire,  0  what  shall  we 

Return  to  heaven,  that  is  our  own, 
When  all  the  world  belongs  to  Thee  ? 

We  ha^e  no  offering  to  impart, 

But  praises,  and  a  wounded  heart. 

0  Thou  that  sittest  in  heaven,  and  seest 
My  deeds  without,  my  thoughts  within, 

Be  Thou  my  prince,  be  Thou  my  priest, — 

Command  my  soul,  and  cure  my  sin : 
How  bitter  my  afflictions  be 

1  care  not,  so  I  rise  to  Thee. 

What  I  possess,  or  what  I  crave, 

Brings  no  content,  great  God,  to  me, 

If  what  I  would  or  what  I  have 

Be  not  possessed  and  blessed  in  Thee : 

What  I  enjoy,  oh,  make  it  mine, 

In  making  me — that  have  it — Thine. 

When  winter-fortunes  cloud  the  brows 

Of  summer-friends, — when  eyes  grow  strange,- 

When  plighted  faith  forgets  its  vows, — 
When  earth  and  all  things  in  it  change, — 


RICHARD    BLACKMORE.  233 

O  Lord,  thy  mercies  fail  me  never, — 
When  once  Thou  lovest,  Thou  lovest  forever 

Great  God,  whose  kingdom  hath  no  end, 

Into  whose  secrets  none  can  dive, 
Whose  mercy  none  can  apprehend, 

Whose  justice  none  can  feel — and  live, 
What  my  dull  heart  cannot  aspire 
To  know,  Lord,  teach  me  to  admire. 


SIB   RICHARD    BLACKMORE. 

SIR  RICHARD  BLACKMORE,  a  poet,  physician,  and  miscellaneous 
writer,  was  born  in  1654.  Among  his  poems  are  "  The  Creation," 
"  The  Redeemer,"  a  "  Paraphrase  on  the  Book  of  Job,"  and  a  "  Ver- 
sion of  the  Psalms."  Blackmore  was  the  butt  of  contemporary  wits. 
Dryden  commenced  the  persecution,  and  a  host  followed.  Heedless, 
however,  of  this,  he  went  on  hi  his  selected  path,  and  he  has  received 
his  reward  in  the  commendations  of  such  men  as  Addison,  Locke,  and 
Johnson.  He  died  in  1739. 

THE  HUNDRED  AND  FOURTEENTH  PSALM  PARAPHRASED. 

WHEN  God  a  thousand  miracles  had  wrought, 
The  favorite  tribes'  deliverance  to  promote, 
And  marching  on  in  triumph  at  their  head, 
Their  host  to  promised  Canaan  led  ; 
Then,  Jacob,  was  thy  rescued  race 
Distinguished  by  peculiar  marks  of  grace ; 
Their  happiness  and  honor  to  advance, 
He  chose  them  for  his  own  inheritance ; 
With  whom  alone  then*  gracious  God 
Would  make  his  residence  and  blest  abode. 
They  were  from  heaven  instructed  to  adore 

Their  God,  and  with  celestial  light 
Canaan  was  blessed,  as  Goshen  was  before, 

While  all  then*  neighbors  lay  involved  in  night. 
20* 


234  RICHARD    BLACKMORE. 


God  the  foundation  of  their  empire  laid, 

The  model  of  their  constitution  made  ; 

He  on  their  throne  their  King  in  person  sate, 

And  ruled  with  equal  laws  the  sacred  state. 

For  this  blest  purpose  Jacob's  seed 

Was  from  the  Egyptian  bondage  freed. 

When  God  to  do  this  wondrous  work  was  pleased, 

Great  consternation  nature  seized  : 

The  restive  floods  refused  to  flow, 

Panting  with  fear,  the  winds  could  find  no  breath  to  blow, 

The  astonished  sea  did  motionless  become, 

Horror  its  waters  did  benumb. 

The  briny  waves,  that  reared  themselves  to  see 

The  Almighty  judgments,  and  his  majesty, 

With  terror  crystallized,  began  to  halt, 

Then  pillars  grew,  and  rocks  of  salt. 

Jordan,  as  soon  as  this  great  deed  it  saw, 

Struck  with  a  reverential  awe, 

Started,  and  with  precipitation  fled, 

The  thronging  waves  ran  backward  to  their  head. 

Vast  hills  were  moved  from  out  their  place, 

Terror  the  mountains  did  constrain 
To  lift  themselves  from  off  their  base, 

And  on  their  rocky  roots  to  dance  about  the  plain. 
The  little  hills,  astonished  at  the  sight, 
Flew  to  the  mother-mountains  in  a  fright, 
And  did  about  them  skip,  as  lambs 
Run  to  and  bleat  around  their  trembling  dams. 
What  ailed  thee,  0  thou  troubled  sea, 
That  thou  with  all  thy  watery  troops  didst  flee  ? 
What  ailed  thee,  Jordan  ?  tell  the  cause 
That  made  thy  flood  break  nature's  laws  ; 
Thy  course  thou  didst  not  only  stop, 
And  roll  thy  liquid  volumes  up, 
But  didst  e'en  backward  flow,  to  hide 
Within  thy  fountain's  head  thy  refluent  tide. 
What  did  the  lofty  mountains  ail  ? 
What  pangs  of  fear  did  all  the  hills  assail, 


RICHARD    BLACKMORE.  235 


That  they  their  station  could  not  keep, 

But,  scared  with  danger,  ran  like  timorous  scattered  sheep  ? 

But  why  do  I  demand  a  cause 

Of  your  amazement,  which  deserves  applause  ? 

Yours  was  a  just,  becoming  fear  ; 

For  when  th'  Almighty  does  appear, 

Not  only  you,  but  the  whole  earth  should  quake, 

And  out  of  reverence  should  its  place  forsake. 

For  He  is  nature's  sovereign  Lord, 

Who  by  his  great  commanding  word 

Can  make  the  floods  to  solid  crystal  grow, 

Or  melt  the  rocks,  and  make  their  marble  flow. 


THE     SINNERS      FATE. 

FROM  A  PARAPHRASE  ON  JOB. 

WHAT  if  the  sinner's  magazines  are  stored 
With  the  rich  spoils  that  Ophir's  mines  afford  ? 
What  if  he  spends  his  happy  days  and  nights 
In  softest  joys  and  undisturbed  delights  ? 
Where  is  his  hope  at  last,  when  God  shall  wrest 
His  trembling  soul  from  his  reluctant  breast  ? 
Must  he  not  then  heaven's  vengeance  undergo, 
Condemned  to  chains  and  everlasting  wo  ? 
This  is  his  fate  ;  but  often  here  below 
Justice  o'ertakes  him,  though  it  marches  slow. 
And  when  the  day  of  vengeance  does  appear, 
The  wretch  will  cry,  but  will  the  Almighty  hear  ? 
If,  bathed  in  tears,  compassion  he  invokes, 
The  unrelenting  Judge  will  multiply  his  strokes ; 
His  vain  complaints  and  unregarded  prayer 
Will  drive  the  raving  rebel  to  despair. 
Or  will  he  yet  with  confidence  apply 
Himself  to  God,  and  on  his  aid  rely  ? 
Will  he  not  rather  cease  in  his  distress 
His  prayers  to  heaven  hereafter  to  address  ? 


236  THOMAS    FLATMAN. 


THOMAS   FLATMAN. 

THOMAS  FLATMAN  was  born  in  1633.  He  has  been  honored  by 
Wood  with  the  title  of  an  eminent  poet ;  and  though  his  writings  may 
not  entitle  him  to  such  a  distinction,  there  is  still  sufficient  beauty  in  his 
pieces  to  show  that  the  censure  bestowed  on  him  by  some  recent  crit- 
ics is  wholly  undeserved.  He  died  in  1688.  Addison  borrowed  the 
first  of  his  minor  poems  from  Flatman's  "  Thought  of  Death." 

HYMN    FOR    THE    MORNING. 

AWAKE,  my  soul !  awake,  mine  eyes  ! 

Awake,  my  drowsy  faculties ! 

Awake,  and  see  the  new-born  light 

Spring  from  the  darksome  womb  of  night . 

Look  up  and  see  the  unwearied  sun, 

Already  has  his  race  begun. 

The  pretty  lark  is  mounted  high, 

And  sings  her  matins  in  the  sky. 

Arise,  my  soul !  and  thou,  my  voice, 

In  songs  of  praise  early  rejoice  ! 

0  great  Creator  !  heavenly  King ! 

Thy  praises  ever  let  me  sing  ! 

Thy  power  has  made,  thy  goodness  kept, 

This  fenceless  body  while  I  slept ; 

Yet  one  day  more  has  given  me 

From  all  the  powers  of  darkness  free. 

Oh !  keep  my  heart  from  sin  secure, 

My  life  unblameable  and  pure  ; 
That  when  the  last  of  all  my  days  is  come, 
Cheerful  and  fearless  I  may  wait  my  doom. 

FOR    THE    EVENING. 

SLEEP  !  downy  sleep !  come  close  mine  eyes, 
Tired  with  beholding  vanities  ; 
Sweet  slumbers,  come,  and  chase  away 
The  toils  and  follies  of  the  day. 


THOMAS    FLATMAN.  237 


On  your  soft  bosom  will  I  lie, 

Forget  the  world,  and  learn  to  die. 

O  Israel's  watchful  Shepherd  !  spread 

Tents  of  angels  round  my  bed ; 

Let  not  the  spirits  of  the  air 

While  I  slumber  me  ensnare  ; 

But  save  thy  suppliant  free  from  harms, 

Clasped  in  thine  everlasting  arms. 

Clouds  and  thick  darkness  are  thy  throne, 

Thy  wonderful  pavilion  ; 

Oh !  dart  from  thence  a  shining  ray, 

And  then  my  midnight  shall  be  day  ! 

Thus  when  the  morn  in  crimson  dressed, 

Breaks  through  the  windows  of  the  east, 

My  hymns  of  thankful  praise  shall  rise 

Like  incense  at  the  morning  sacrifice ! 

A    THOUGHT    OF    DEATH. 

WHEN  on  my  sickbed  I  languish, 
Full  of  sorrow,  full  of  anguish, 
Fainting,  gasping,  trembling,  crying, 
Panting,  groaning,  speechless,  dying, 
My  soul  just  now  about  to  take  her  flight 
Into  the  regions  of  eternal  night ; 

Oh  tell  me,  you 
That  have  been  long  below, 

What  shall  I  do! 
What  shall  I  think,  when  cruel  death  appears, 

That  may  extenuate  my  fears ! 
Methinks  I  hear  some  gentle  spirit  say, 

Be  not  fearful,  come  away ! 
Think  with  thyself  that  now  thou  shalt  be  free, 
And  find  thy  long-expected  liberty ; 
Better  thou  mayst,  but  worse  thou  canst  not  be 
Than  in  this  vale  of  tears  and  misery. 
Like  Caesar,  with  assurance  then  come  on, 
And  unamazed  attempt  the  laurel  crown 
That  lies  on  th'  other  side  death's  rubicon. 


238  JOHN    NORKIS. 


BEY.  JOHN  NORRIS. 

JOHN  NORRIS,  author  of  numerous  theological  works,  and  of  "•  A 
Collection  of  Miscellanies,  consisting  of  Poems,  Essays,  Discourses, 
and  Letters,"  was  born  in  1657.  It  has  been  justly  said,  that  "in  the 
union  of  learning  and  logical  argument  with  sublime  piety,  few  have 
equalled  Norris  of  Bemerton."  In  his  poem  "  Transient  Delight,"  is 
the  line, 

Like  angels'  visits,  short  and  bright, 
the  original  of  the  passage  in  Blair's  "  Grave" — 

Visits 
Like  those  of  angels,  short  and  far  between, : 

and  in  Campbell's  "  Pleasures  of  Hope," 

Like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between. 
Norris  was  rector  of  Bemerton,  in  Wiltshire,  and  died  in  1711. 


THE      INFIDEL. 

FAREWELL  fruition,  thou  grand,  cruel  cheat, 
Which  first  our  hopes  dost  raise,  and  then  defeat ; 
Farewell  thou  midwife  to  abortive  bliss, 

Thou  mystery  of  fallacies. 
Distance  presents  the  object  fair, 
With  charming  features  and  a  graceful  air ; 
But  when  we  come  to  seize  the  inviting  prey, 
Like  a  shy  ghost  it  vanishes  away. 

So  to  the  unthinking  boy  the  distant  sky 
Seems  on  some  mountain's  surface  to  rely ; 
He  with  ambitious  haste  climbs  the  ascent, 
Curious  to  touch  the  firmament. 
But  when,  with  an  unwearied  pace, 
Arrived  he  is  at  the  long-wished-for  place, 
With  sighs  the  sad  defeat  he  does  deplore — 
His  heaven  is  still  as  distant  as  before. 


JOHX    NORR13.  239 

And  yet  'twas  long  ere  I  could  throughly  see 
This  grand  impostor's  frequent  treachery  ; 
Though  often  fooled,  yet  I  should  still  dream  on, 
Of  pleasure  in  reversion  : 
Though  still  he  did  my  hopes  deceive, 
His  fair  pretensions  I  would  still  believe ; 
Such  was  my  charity,  that  though  I  knew, 
And  found  him  false,  yet  I  would  think  him  true. 

But  now  he  shall  no  more  with  shows  deceive, 
I  will  no  more  enjoy,  no  more  believe ; 
The  unwary  juggler  has  so  often  shown 
His  fallacies,  that  now  they're  known. 
Shall  I  trust  on  ?  the  cheat  is  plain  ; 
I  will  not  be  imposed  upon  again  ; 
I'll  view  the  bright  appearance  from  afar, 
But  never  try  to  catch  the  falling  star. 


SUPERSTITION. 

I  CARE  not,  though  it  be 

By  the  preciser  sort  thought  popery ; 

We  poets  can  a  license  show 

For  every  thing  we  do  : 
Hear,  then,  my  little  saint,  I'll  pray  to  thee. 

If  now  thy  happy  mind, 

Amidst  its  various  joys  can  leisure  find 

To  attend  to  any  thing  so  low, 

As  what  I  say  or  do, 
Regard,  and  be  what  thou  wast  ever — kind. 

Let  not  the  blessed  above 

Engross  thee  quite,  but  sometimes  hither  rove  ; 

Fain  would  I  thy  sweet  image  see, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee, 
Nor  is  it  curiosity,  but  love. 


240  JOHN    NORRIS. 


Ah  !  what  delight  'twould  be 

Wouldst  thou  sometimes,  by  stealth,  converse  with  me 

How  should  I  thy  sweet  commune  prize, 

And  other  joys  despise ; 
Come,  then,  I  ne'er  was  yet  denied  by  thee. 

I  would  not  long  detain 

Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in  pain  ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e'er  know 

Of  thy  escape  below ; 
Before  thou'rt  missed  thou  shouldst  return  again. 

Sure  heaven  must  needs  thy  love 
As  well  as  other  qualities  improve  ; 

Come,  then,  and  recreate  my  sight 

With  rays  of  thy  pure  light ; 
'Twill  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps  above. 

But  if  fate's  so  severe, 

As  to  confine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere, 

(And  by  thy  absence  I  shall  know 

Whether  thy  state  be  so,) 
Live  happy,  but  be  mindful  of  me  there. 


ISAAC    WATTS.  211 


ISAAC  WATTS,   D.D. 

ISAAC  WATTS,  an  eminent  divine,  philosopher,  and  poet,  was  born 
at  Southampton,  in  1674,  and  became  a  congregational  minister.  As 
a  poet  he  is  chiefly  known  by  his  "  Hebrew  Lyrics,"  "  Hymns,"  &c. 
They  are  not  very  carefully  finished ;  but  there  is  a  remarkable  sweet- 
ness and  purity  of  thought  in  them.  Perhaps  the  most  successful  of 
his  poems  are  his  "  Hymns  for  the  Young,"  which  are  admirably 
adapted  for  their  purpose.  His  psalms  and  hymns  have,  for  half  a  cen- 
tury, been  used  in  nearly  all  the  churches  that  worship  in  the  English 
language ;  and  if  popularity  were  a  test  of  merit,  Watts  should  be 
ranked  with  Milton.  He  died  in  1748. 


THE    DAY    OF    JUDGMENT. 
AN  ODE  ATTEMPTED  IN  THE  ENGLISH  SAPPHIC. 

WHEN  the  fierce  north  wind,  with  his  airy  forces, 
Rears  up  the  Baltic  to  a  foaming  fury, 
And  the  red  lightning,  with  a  storm  of  hail,  comes 
Rushing  amain  down, 

How  the  poor  sailors  stand  amazed  and  tremble, 
While  the  hoarse  thunder,  like  a  bloody  trumpet, 
Roars  a  loud  onset  to  the  gaping  waters, 
Quick  to  devour  them  ! 

Such  shall  the  noise  be,  and  the  wild  disorder, 
(If  things  eternal  may  be  like  those  earthly,) 
Such  the  dire  terror  when  the  great  archangel 
Shakes  the  creation, 

Tears  the  strong  pillars  of  the  vault  of  heaven, 
Breaks  up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes. 
See  the  graves  open,  and  the  bones  arising—- 
Flames all  around  them. 
21 


ISAAC    WATTS. 


Hark !  the  shrill  outcries  of  the  guilty  wretches ; 
Lively  bright  horror  and  amazing  anguish 
Stare  through  their  eyelids,  while  the  living  worm  lies 
Gnawing  within  them. 

Thoughts,  like  old  vultures,  prey  upon  their  heart-strings, 
And  the  smart  twinges  when  the  eye  beholds  the 
Lofty  Judge  frowning,  and  a  flood  of  vengeance 
Rolling  afore  Him. 

Hopeless  immortals !  how  they  scream  and  shiver, 
While  devils  push  them  to  the  pit  wide  yawning, 
Hideous  and  gloomy,  to  receive  them  headlong 
Down  to  the  centre  ! 

Stop  here,  my  fancy  :  (all  away,  ye  horrid 
Doleful  ideas :)  come,  arise  to  Jesus  ; 
How  He  sits  God-like !  and  the  saints  around  Him, 
Throned,  yet  adoring. 

Oh  !  may  I  sit  there  when  he  comes  triumphant, 
Dooming  the  nations,  then  ascend  to  glory ; 
While  our  Hosannas  all  along  the  passage 
Shout  the  Redeemer. 


HOPE     IN     DARKNESS. 

YET  gracious  God, 

Yet  will  I  seek  thy  smiling  face : 
What  though  a  short  eclipse  his  beauties  shroud, 

And  bar  the  influence  of  his  rays  ? 
'Tis  but  a  morning  vapor  or  a  summer  cloud ; 

He  is  my  sun,  though  He  refuse  to  shine. 
Though  for  a  moment  He  depart, 
I  dwell  forever  on  his  heart, 

Forever  He  on  mine. 
Early  before  the  light  arise, 

I'll  spring  a  thought  away  to  God ; 


ISAAC    WATT3.  243 


The  passion  of  my  heart  and  eyes 
Shall  shout  a  thousand  groans  and  sighs, 
A  thousand  glances  strike  the  skies, 
The  floor  of  his  abode. 

Dear  Sovereign,  hear  thy  servant  pray ; 

Bend  the  blue  heavens,  Eternal  King, 

Downward  thy  cheerful  graces  bring ; 
Or  shall  I  breathe  in  vain,  and  pant  my  hours  away  ? 
Break,  glorious  Brightness,  through  the  gloomy  veil, 

Look,  how  the  armies  of  despair 

Aloft  their  sooty  banners  rear 

Round  my  poor  captive  soul,  and  dare 
Pronounce  me  prisoner  of  hell. 

But  Thou,  my  Sun,  and  Thou,  my  Shield, 

Wilt  save  me  in  the  bloody  field ; 
Break,  glorious  Brightness,  shoot  one  glimmering  ray ; 
One  glance  of  thine  creates  a  day, 
And  drives  the  troops  of  hell  away. 

Happy  the  times,  but  ah !  those  times  are  gone, 
When  wondrous  power,  and  radiant  grace, 

Round  the  tall  arches  of  thy  temple  shone, 
And  mingled  their  victorious  rays  : 

Sin,  with  all  its  ghastly  train, 

Fled  to  the  depths  of  death  again, 
And  smiling  triumph  sat  on  every  face  : 

Our  spirits,  raptured  with  the  sight, 

Were  all  devotion,  all  delight, 
And  loud  Hosannas  sounded  the  Redeemer's  praise. 

Here  could  I  say, 
(And  paint  the  place  whereon  I  stood,) 

Here  I  enjoyed  a  visit  half  the  day 
From  my  descending  God : 
I  was  regaled  with  heavenly  fare, 

With  fruit  and  manna  from  above ; 
Divinely  sweet  the  blessings  were, 
While  my  Emmanuel  was  there ; 


244  ISAAC    WATTS. 


And  o'er  my  head 
The  Conqueror  spread 
The  banner  of  his  love. 

Then  why,  my  heart,  sunk  down  so  low  ? 
Why  do  my  eyes  dissolve  and  flow, 

And  hopeless  nature  mourn  ? 
Review,  my  soul,  those  pleasing  days, 
Read  his  unalterable  grace 
Through  the  displeasure  of  his  face, 

And  wait  a  kind  return. 
A  father's  love  may  raise  a  frown, 
To  chide  the  child,  or  prove  the  son, 

But  love  will  ne'er  destroy ; 
The  hour  of  darkness  is  but  short, 
Faith  be  thy  life,  and  patience  thy  support: 

The  morning  brings  the  joy. 


DIVINE     JUDGMENTS. 

NOT  from  the  dust  my  sorrows  spring, 
Nor  drop  my  comforts  from  the  lower  skies : 
Let  all  the  baneful  planets  shed 
Their. mingled  curses  on  my  head ; 

How  vain  their  curses,  if  th'  Eternal  King 
Look  through  the  clouds,  and  bless  me  with  his  eyes ! 

Creatures  with  all  their  boasted  sway, 

Are  but  his  slaves,  and  must  obey  ; 
They  wait  their  orders  from  above, 
And  execute  his  word,  the  vengeance,  or  the  love. 
'Tis  by  a  warrant  from  his  hand, 

The  gentler  gales  are  bound  to  sleep  ; 
The  north-wind  blusters,  and  assumes  command 

Over  the  desert  and  the  deep ; 

Old  Boreas,  with  his  freezing  powers, 
Turns  the  earth  iron,  makes  the  ocean  glass, 
Arrests  the  dancing  riv'lets  as  they  pass, 

And  chains  them  moveless  to  the  shores  ; 


ISAAC    WATTS.  245 


The  grazing  ox  lows  to  the  gelid  skies, 

Walks  o'er  the  marble  meads  with  withering  eyes, 

Walks  o'er  the  solid  lakes,  snuffs  up  the  wind,  and  dies. 

Fly  to  the  polar  world,  my  sun, 

And  mourn  the  pilgrims  there,  (a  wretched  throng !) 

Seized  and  bound  in  rigid  chains, 

A  troop  of  statues  on  the  Russian  plains, 

And  life  stands  frozen  in  the  purple  veins. 
Atheist,  forbear,  no  more  blaspheme  ; 
God  has  a  thousand  terrors  in  his  name, 

A  thousand  armies  at  command, 

Waiting  the  signal  of  his  hand, 
And  magazines  of  frost,  and  magazines  of  flame. 

Dress  thee  in  steel  to  meet  his  wrath  ; 

His  sharp  artillery  from  the  north 
Shall  pierce  thee  to  thy  soul,  and  shake  thy  mortal  frame. 

Sublime  on  winter's  rugged  wings, 
He  rides  in  arms  along  the  sky, 

And  scatters  fate  on  swains  and  kings ; 
And  flocks,  and  herds,  and  nations  die, 

While  impious  lips,  profanely  bold, 

Grow  pale,  and  quivering  at  his  dreadful  cold, 
Give  their  own  blasphemies  the  lie. 

The  mischiefs  that  infest  the  earth, 
When  the  hot  dog-star  fires  the  realms  on  high, 

Drought,  and  disease,  and  cruel  dearth, 
Are  but  the  flashes  of  a  wrathful  eye, 
From  the  incensed  Divinity. 
In  vain  our  parching  palates  thirst 

For  vital  food,  in  vain  we  cry, 

And  pant  for  vital  breath  ; 
The  verdant  fields  are  burnt  to  dust, 

The  sun  has  drunk  all  channels  dry, 

And  all  the  air  is  death. 
Ye  scourges  of  our  Maker's  rod, 
'Tis  at  his  dread  command,  at  his  imperial  nod, 
You  deal  your  various  plagues  abroad. 
21* 


246  It  A  AC    WATTS. 


Hail,  whirlwinds,  hurricanes  and  floods, 

That  all  the  leafy  standards  strip, 

And  bear  down,  with  a  mighty  sweep, 
The  riches  of  the  fields,  and  honors  of  the  woods  ; 

Storms,  that  ravage  o'er  the  deep, 
And  bury  millions  in  the  waves  ; 

Earthquakes,  that  in  midnight  sleep 
Turn  cities  into  heaps,  and  make  our  beds  our  graves : 
While  you  disperse  your  mortal  harms, 
'Tis  the  Creator's  voice  that  sounds  your  loud  alarms, 
When  guilt  with  louder  cries  provokes  a  God  to  arms. 

Oh  !  for  a  message  from  above, 
To  bear  my  spirit  up, 
Some  pledge  of  my  Creator's  love, 
To  calm  my  terrors  and  support  my  hope  ! 
Let  waves  and  thunders  mix  and  roar, 
Be  thou  my  God,  and  the  whole  world  is  mine  : 
While  Thou  art  Sovereign,  I'm  secure  ; 
I  shall  be  rich  till  Thou  art  poor ; 
For  all  I  fear  and  all  I  wish,  heaven,  earth,  and  hell,  are  thine. 

THEHEBREW     BARD. 

SOFTLY  the  tuneful  shepherd  leads 
The  Hebrew  flocks  to  flowery  meads, 
He  marks  their  path  with  notes  divine, 
While  fountains  spring  with  oil  and  wino 

Rivers  of  peace  attend  his  song, 
And  draw  their  milky  train  along  : 
He  jars  ;  and  lo  !  the  flints  are  broke, 
'But  honey  issues  from  the  rock. 

When  kindling  with  victorious  fire, 
He  shakes  his  lance  across  the  lyre ; 
The  lyre  resounds  unknown  alarms, 
And  sets  the  thunderer  in  arms. 

Behold  the  God  !  the  Almighty  King, 
Rides  on  a  tempest's  glorious  wing ; 


ISAAC    WATTS.  247 


His  ensigns  lighten  round  the  sky, 
And  moving  legions  sound  on  high. 

Ten  thousand  cherubs  wait  his  course, 
Chariots  of  fire,  and  naming  horse  : 
Earth  trembles  ;  and  her  mountains  flow 
At  his  approach,  like  melting  snow. 

But  who  those  frowns  of  earth  can  draw, 
That  strike  heaven,  earth,  and  hell,  with  awe  ? 
Red  lightning  from  his  eyelids  broke, 
His  voice  was  thunder,  hail,  and  smoke. 

He  spake !  the  cleaving  waters  fled, 
And  stars  beheld  the  ocean's  bed : 
While  the  great  Master  strikes  his  lyre, 
You  see  the  affrighted  floods  retire. 

In  heaps  th'  affrighted  billows  stand, 
Waiting  the  changes  of  his  hand  ; 
He  leads  his  Israel  through  the  sea, 
And  watery  mountains  guard  their  way. 

Turning  his  hand  with  sovereign  sweep, 
He  drowns  all  Egypt  in  the  deep  ; 
Then  guides  the  tribes,  a  glorious  band, 
Through  deserts  to  the  promised  land. 

Here  camps  with  wide-embattled  force, 
Here  gates  and  bulwarks  stop  their  course  • 
He  storms  the  mounds,  the  bulwark  falls : 
The  harp  lies  strewed  with  ruined  walls. 

See  his  broad  sword  flies  o'er  the  strings, 
And  mows  down  nations  with  their  kings 
From  every  chord  his  bolts  are  hurled, 
And  vengeance  smites  the  rebel  world. 

Lo !  the  great  poet  shifts  the  scene, 
And  shows  the  face  of  God  serene, 
Truth,  meekness,  peace,  salvation  ride, 
With  guards  of  justice  at  his  side. 


348  ISAAC    WATTS. 


A     SURVEY     OP     MAN. 

I'M  borne  aloft,  and  leave  the  crowd, 
I  sail  upon  a  morning  cloud, 

Skirted  with  dawning  gold  : 
Mine  eyes  beneath  the  opening  day 
Command  the  globe  with  wide  survey, 
Where  ants  in  busy  millions  play, 

And  try  and  heave  the  mould. 

"  Are  these  the  things"  (my  passion  cried) 
"  That  we  call  men  ?     Are  these  allied 

To  the  fair  worlds  of  light  ? 
They  have  rased  out  their  Maker's  name, 
Graven  on  their  minds  with  pointed  flame, 

In  strokes  divinely  bright. 

"  Wretches !  they  hate  their  native  skies ; 
If  an  ethereal  thought  arise, 

Or  spark  of  virtue  shine, 
With  cruel  force  they  damp  its  plumes, 
Choke  the  young  fire  with  sensual  fumes, 

With  business,  lust,  or  wine. 

"  Lo !  how  they  throng  with  panting  breath 
The  broad  descending  road, 

That  leads  unerring  down  to  death, 
Nor  miss  the  dark  abode." 

Thus  while  I  drop  a  tear  or  two 

On  the  wild  herd,  a  noble  few 

Dare  to  stray  upward,  and  pursue 
The  unbeaten  way  to  God. 

I  meet  Myrtillo  mounting  high, 
I  know  his  candid  soul  afar ; 

Here  Dorylis  and  Thyrsis  fly, 
Each  like  a  rising  star ; 

Charin  I  see,  and  Fidea  there, 

I  see  them  help  each  other's  flight, 
And  bless  them  as  they  go : 

They  soar  beyond  my  laboring  sight, 


ISAAC    WATTS.  249 


And  leave  their  loads  of  mortal  care, 

But  not  their  love,  below. 
On  heaven,  their  home,  they  fix  their  eyes, 

The  temple  of  their  God  : 
With  morning  incense  up  they  rise, 
Sublime,  and  through  the  lower  skies, 

Spread  their  perfumes  abroad. 

Across  the  road  a  seraph  flew, 
"  Mark"  (said  he)  "  that  happy  pair, 
Marriage  helps  devotion  there  ; 
When  kindred  minds  their  God  pursue, 
They  break  with  double  vigor  through 
The  dull  incumbent  air." 

Charmed  with  the  pleasure  and  surprise, 

My  soul  adores  and  sings — 
"  Blest  be  the  power  that  springs  their  flight, 
That  streaks  their  path  with  heavenly  light, 
That  turns  their  love  to  sacrifice, 

And  joins  their  zeal  for  wings." 

A     SUMMER     EVENING. 

How  fine  has  the  day  been,  how  bright  was  the  sun, 
How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run, 
Though  he  rose  in  a  mist  when  his  race  he  begun, 

And  there  followed  some  droppings  of  rain  ; 
But  now  the  fair  traveller's  come  to  the  west, 
He  paints  the  sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 

And  foretells  a  bright  rising  again. 

Just  such  is  the  Christian  ;  his  course  he  begins 
Like  the  sun  in  a  mist,  when  he  mourns  for  his  sins, 
And  melts  into  tears  ;  then  he  breaks  out  and  shines, 

And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 
But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  race, 
Like  a  fine  setting  sun,  he  looks  richer  in  grace, 
And  gives  a  sure  hope,  at  the  end  of  his  days, 

Of  rising  in  brighter  array. 


250  THOMAS    PARNELL. 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 

THOMAS  PARNELL  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1679.  At  thirteen  he  was 
admitted  to  Trinity  College,  where,  in  1700,  he  took  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts.  He  often  visited  England,  and  was  the  friend  of  Pope 
and  Swift.  He  obtained  the  Archdeaconry  of  Clogher,  in  his  twenty- 
sixth  year ;  and  he  died  at  Chester,  on  his  way  home  to  Ireland,  in 
1717.  "  The  compass  of  Parnell's  poetry,"  says  Mr.  Campbell,  "is 
not  extensive,  but  it  is  peculiarly  delightful.  It  is  like  a  flower  that 
has  been  trained  and  planted  by  the  skill  of  the  gardener,  but  which 
preserves,  in  its  cultured  state,  the  natural  fragrance  of  its  wildei 


A     NIGHT-PIECE     ON     DEATH. 

Br  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light 
No  more  I  waste  the  wakeful  night, 
Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er : 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 
Or  point  at  least  the  longest  way. 
I'll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom's  surely  taught  below. 
How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky ! 
Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumbered  lie, 
While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide. 
The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe, 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
The  grounds  which  on  the  right  aspire 
In  dimness  from  the  view  retire ; 
The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves ; 
That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 


THOMAS    PARNELL.  251 


There  pass  with  melancholy  state 

By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  fate, 

And  think,  as  softly  sad  you  tread 

Above  the  venerable  dead, 

"  Time  was,  like  thee,  they  life  possessed, 

And  time  shall  be  that  thou  shalt  rest !" 

Those  graves  with  bending  osier  bound, 
That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose 
Where  Toil  and  Poverty  repose. 

The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name, 
The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame, 
(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away,) 
A  Middle  Race  of  mortals  own, 
Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 

The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 
Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
Urns,  angels,  epithets,  and  bones  ; 
These  (all  the  poor  remains  of  state !) 
Adorn  the  Rich,  or  praise  the  Great, 
Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live, 
Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 

Ha !  while  I  gaze  pale  Cynthia  fades, 
The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades  ; 
All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrapped  with  shrouds, 
They  rise  in  visionary  clouds, 
And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
"  Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die." 

Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew, 
That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  begin, 
(Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din, 
Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 
O'er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground,) 
It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans, 
Thus  speaking  from  among  the  bones : 


252  THOMAS    PARNELL. 


"  When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply, 
How  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 
They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things  : 
They  make,  and  then  they  dread  my  stings 
Fools  !  if  you  less  provoked  your  fears, 
No  more  my  spectre  form  appears. 
Death's  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod, 
If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God  ; 
A  port  of  calms,  a  state  of  ease, 
From  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas." 

Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 
Deep  pendent  cypress,  mourning  poles, 
Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weeds, 
Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  covered  steeds, 
And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread, 
Nod  o'er  the  scutcheons  of  the  dead  ? 
Nor  can  the  parted  body  know, 
Nor  wants  the  soul,  these  forms  of  wo. 
As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell, 
With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell, 
Whene'er  their  suffering  years  are  run, 
Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  sun  : 
Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense, 
Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence. 
On  earth,  and  in  the  body  placed, 
A  few  and  evil  years  they  waste  ; 
But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside, 
See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 
Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tower  away, 
And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day. 

A     HYMN     TO     CONTENTMENT 

LOVELY,  lasting  peace  of  mind ! 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heaven-born  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky, 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  Jmow; 


THOMAS    PARNELL.  253 

Whither,  oh !  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head  ? 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  ? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there ; 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined ; 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way, 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love,  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves  ; 
The  silent  heart  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales, 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 
Amusing  thought ;  but  learns  to  know, 
That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  wo. 
No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground ; 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 
To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky ; 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  nature  in  its  forms  below : 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 
And  doubts  at  last  for  knowledge  rise. 
Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear ! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blessed, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,. as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved : 
It  seemed  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confessed  the  presence  of  the  Grace  : 
When  thus  she  spoke : — "  Go,  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still ; 
22 


254  THOMAS    PARNELL. 


Know  God, — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow : 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest  I" 

Oh  !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat,. 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ, 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy> 
Raised,  as  ancient  prophets  were. 
In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer, 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 
Pleased  and  blessed  with  God  alone  ; 
Then  white  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight, 
While  silver  waters  glide  along, 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song, 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 
And  Thee,  Great  Source  of  Nature,  sing. 
The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day  ; 
The  moon,  that  shines  with  borrowed  light ; 
The  stars,  that  gild  the  gloomy  night  ; 
The  seas,  that  roll  unnumbered  waves ; 
The  wood,  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves  ; 
The  field,  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; — 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see, 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me : 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 
Go,  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
Your  busy,  or  your  vain  extremes, 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  255 


EDWARD   YOUNG. 

DR.  YOUNG  was  born  at  Upham,  near  Winchester,  in  1681.  He 
was  educated  at  Winchester  School,  and  removed  thence  to  New  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  He  took  orders  in  1727,  and  was  appointed  Chaplain  to 
the  king.  After  this  he  engaged  in  politics,  and  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
soliciting  further  preferment  from  Archbishop  Seeker,  he  was  appoint- 
ed Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  the  Princess  dowager  of  Wales.  He  died 
in  April,  1765.  The  principal  work  of  Dr.  Young  is  his  "Night 
Thoughts,"  of  which  Dr.  Johnson  gives  the  following  character: 
"  The  author  has  exhibited  a  very  wide  display  of  original  poetry,  va- 
riegated with  deep  reflections  and  striking  allusions;  a  wildness  of 
thought,  in  which  the  fertility  of  fancy  scatters  flowers  of  every  hue 
and  order.  The  excellence  of  this  work  is  not  exactness,  but  copious- 
ness ;  particular  lines  are  not  to  be  regarded,  the  power  is  in  the 
whole  ;  and  in  the  whole  there  is  a  magnificence,  like  that  ascribed  to 
a  Chinese  plantation — the  magnificence  of  vast  extent  and  endless  di- 
versity." 

THE  POET  COMPARES  HIMSELF  TO  A  TRAVELLER. 

As  when  a  traveller,  a  long  day  passed 

In  painful  search  of  what  he  cannot  find, 

At  night's  approach,  content  with  the  next  cot, 

There  ruminates  awhile,  his  labor  lost ; 

Then  cheers  his  heart  with  what  his  fate  affords, 

And  chants  his  sonnet  to  deceive  the  time, 

Till  the  due  season  calls  him  to  repose : 

Thus  I,  long  travelled  in  the  ways  of  men, 

And  dancing,  with  the  rest,  the  giddy  maze, 

Where  Disappointment  smiles  at  Hope's  career ; 

Warned  by  the  languor  of  life's  evening  ray, 

At  length  have  housed  me  in  an  humble  shed : 

Where,  future  wand'ring  banished  from  my  thought, 

And  waiting,  patient,  the  sweet  hour  of  rest, 

I  chase  the  moments  with  a  serious  song. 


256  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


IMMORTALITY. 

IMMORTAL  !  ages  past,  yet  nothing  gone  ! 

Morn  without  eve  !  a  race  without  a  goal ! 

Unshortened  by  progression  infinite ! 

Futurity  for  ever  future  !  life 

Beginning  still  where  computation  ends  ! 

'Tis  the  description  of  a  Deity ! 

'Tis  the  description  of  the  meanest  slave. 

Immortal !     What  can  strike  the  sense  so  strong, 

As  this  the  soul  ?  it  thunders  to  the  thought ; 

Reason  amazes,  gratitude  o'erwhelms. 

No  more  we  slumber  on  the  brink  of  fate  ; 

Roused  at  the  sound,  the  exulting  soul  ascends, 

And  breathes  her  native  air :  an  air  that  feeds 

Ambition  high,  and  fans  ethereal  fires ! 

Quick  kindles  all  that  is  divine  within  us, 

Nor  leaves  one  loitering  thought  beneath  the  stars. 

Immortal !  was  but  one  immortal,  how 
Would  others  envy  !  how  would  thrones  adore  ! 
Because  'tis  common,  is  the  blessing  less  ? 
How  this  ties  up  the  bounteous  hands  of  heaven  ! 
0  vain,  vain,  vain !  all  else ;  eternity  ! 
A  glorious  and  a  needful  refuge  that, 
From  vile  imprisonment  in  abject  views. 
'Tis  immortality,  'tis  that  alone, 
Amid  life's  pains,  abasements,  emptiness, 
The  soul  can  comfort,  elevate,  and  fill. 
Eternity  depending  covers  all ; 
Sets  earth  at  distance,  casts  her  into  shades  ; 
Blends  her  distinctions ;  abrogates  her  powers  : 
The  low,  the  lofty,  joyous,  and  severe, 
Fortune's  dread  frowns,  and  fascinating  smiles, 
Make  one  promiscuous  and  neglected  heap, 
The  man  beneath,  if  I  may  call  him  man, 
Whom  immortality's  full  force  inspires. 
Nothing  terrestrial  touching  his  high  thought ; 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  257 


Suns  shine  unseen,  and  thunders  roll  unheard, 
By  minds  quite  conscious  of  their  high  descent, 
Their  present  province  and  their  future  prize ; 
Divinely  darting  upward  every  wish, 
Warm  on  the  wing,  in  glorious  absence  lost. 
Doubt  you  this  truth  ?     Why  labors  your  belief  ? 
If  earth's  whole  orb  by  some  due  distanced  eye 
Was  seen  at  once,  her  towering  Alps  would  sink, 
And  levelled  Atlas  leave  an  even  sphere. 
Thus  earth,  and  all  that  earthly  minds  admire, 
Is  swallowed  in  eternity's  vast  round. 
To  that  stupendous  view  when  souls  awake, 
So  large  of  late,  so  mountainous  to  man, 
Tune's  joys  subside,  and  equal  all  below. 

THE    WORLD. 

SUCH  the  glories  of  the  world ! 
What  is  the  world  itself?     Thy  world, — a  grave. 
Where  is  the  dust  that  hath  not  been  alive  ? 
The  spade,  the  plough,  disturb  our  ancestors ; 
From  human  mould  we  reap  our  daily  bread. 
The  globe  around  earth's  hollow  surface  shakes, 
And  is  the  ceiling  of  her  sleeping  sons, 
O'er  devastation  we  blind  revels  keep ; 
Whole  buried  towns  support  the  dancer's  heel. 
Each  element  partakes  our  scattered  spoils ; 
As  nature  wide,  our  ruins  spread  ;  man's  death 
Inhabits  all  things,  but  the  thought  of  man, 
Nor  man  alone  ;  his  breathing  bust  expires, 
His  tomb  is  mortal ;  empires  die ;  where,  now, 
The  Roman  ?  Greek  ?     They  stalk,  an  empty  name ! 
Yet  few  regard  them  in  this  useful  light, 
Though  half  our  learning  is  their  epitaph. 
When  down  thy  vale,  unlocked  by  midnight  thought, 
That  loves  to  wander  in  thy  sunless  realms, 
0  Death !  I  stretch  my  view  ;  what  visions  rise  ! 
What  triumphs !  toils  imperial !  arts  divine ! 
22* 


258  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


In  withered  laurels  glide  before  my  sight ! 
What  lengths  of  far-famed  ages,  billowed  high 
With  human  agitation,  roll  along 
In  unsubstantial  images  of  air.  .  .  . 

But,  0  Lorenzo !  far  the  rest  above, 
Of  ghastly  nature,  and  enormous  size, 
One  form  assaults  my  sight,  and  chills  my  blood, 
And  shakes  my  frame.     Of  one  departed  world 
I  see  the  mighty  shadow. 

DEATH. 

AH  !  how  unjust  to  nature  and  himself, 

Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man ! 

Like  children  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 

We  censure  nature  for  a  span  too  short ; 

That  span,  too  short,  we  tax  as  tedious  too, — 

Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire 

To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed ; 

And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance)  from  ourselves. 

Art !  brainless  art !     Our  furious  charioteer 

Drives  headlong  towards  the  precipice  of  Death  ; 

Death,  most  our  dread ;  Death,  thus  more  dreadful  made; 

Oh  !  what  a  riddle  of  absurdity ! 

Leisure  is  pain  ;  takes  off  our  chariot  wheels ; 

How  heavily  we  drag  the  load  of  life  ! 

Blessed  Leisure  is  our  curse ;  like  that  of  Cain, 

It  makes  us  wander ;  wander  earth  around, 

To  fly  the  tyrant  Thought.     As  Atlas  groaned 

The  world  beneath,  we  groan  beneath  an  hour ; 

We  cry  for  mercy  to  the  next  amusement, — 

The  next  amusement  mortgages  our  fields : 

Slight  inconvenience ! 

Yet  when  Death  kindly  tenders  us  relief 

We  call  him  cruel ;  years  to  moments  shrink, 

Ages  to  years.     The  telescope  is  turned ; 

To  man's  false  optics  (from  his  folly  false) 

Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  259 


And  seems  to  creep  decrepit  with  his  age. 
Behold  him  when  passed  by ;  what  then  is  seen, 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than  the  winds ! 
All  mankind  in  contradiction  strong, 
Rueful,  aghast  cry  out  on  his  career. 

MAN'S  IMMORTALITY  PROVED  BY  REFERENCE  TO  NATURE. 

NATURE,  thy  daughter,  ever  changing  birth, 

Of  Thee,  the  great  immutable,  to  man 

Speaks  wisdom ;  is  his  oracle  supreme  ; 

And  he  who  most  consults  her  is  most  wise. 

Look  nature  through,  'tis  revolution  all ; 

All  change,  no  death.     Day  follows  night,  and  night 

The  dying  day ;  stars  rise,  and  set,  and  rise : 

Earth  takes  th'  example.     See  the  summer  gay, 

With  her  green  chaplet,  and  ambrosial  flowers, 

Droops  into  pallid  autumn  ;  winter  gray, 

Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm, 

Blows  autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away, 

Then  melts  into  the  spring ;  soft  spring,  with  breath 

Favonian  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south, 

Recalls  the  first.     All  to  reflourish  fades ; 

As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks  to  reascend  : 

Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 

With  this  minute  description,  emblem  just, 
Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances  !  both 
Eternal ;  that  a  circle,  this  a  line ; 
That  gravitates,  this  soars.     Th'  ^aspiring  soul, 
Ardent  and  tremulous,  like  flame  ascends  : 
Zeal  and  humility,  her  wings  to  heaven. 
The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various  forms, 
All  dies  into  new  life.     Life  born  from  death, 
Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  forever  roll : 
No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost, 
With  change  of  counsel  charges  the  most  High. 
Matter  immortal !     And  shall  spirit  die  ? 
Above  the  noblest  shall  less  noble  rise  ? 


260  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


Shall  man  alone,  for  whom  all  else  revives, 
No  resurrection  know  ?     Shall  man  alone, 
Imperial  man !  be  sown  in  barren  ground, 
Less  privileged  than  grain  on  which  he  feeds  ? 
Is  man,  in  whom  alone  is  power  to  prize 
The  bliss  of  being,  or  with  previous  pain 
Deplore  its  period,  by  the  spleen  of  fate 
Severely  doomed  death's  single  unredeemed  ? 

MISERY      OF      UNBELIEF. 

COULDST  thou  persuade  me  the  next  life  would  fail 

Our  ardent  wishes,  how  should  I  pour  out 

My  bleeding  heart  in  anguish,  new,  as  deep ! 

Oh  !  with  what  thoughts,  thy  hope  and  my  despair, 

Abhorred  Annihilation  blasts  the  soul, 

And  wide  extends  the  bounds  of  human  wo  ! 

In  this  black  channel  would  my  ravings  run : 

Grief  from  the  future  borrowed  peace  erewhile 

The  future  vanished,  and  the  present  pained : 

Fall  how  profound  !     Hurled  headlong,  hurled  at  once 

To  night !  to  nothing  !  darker  still  than  night. 

If  'twas  a  dream,  why  wake  me,  my  worst  foe  ? 

Oh  !  for  delusion !     Oh !  for  error  still ! 

Could  vengeance  strike  much  stronger  than  to  plant 

A  thinking  being  in  a  world  like  this, 

Not  over  rich  before,  now  beggared  quite, 

More  cursed  than  at  the  fall  ?     The  sun  goes  out ! 

The  thorns  shoot  up  !  what  thorns  in  every  thought ! 

Why  sense  of  better  ?  it  embitters  worse  : 

Why  sense  ?  why  life  ?  if  but  to  sigh,  then  sink 

To  what  I  was  ?  twice  nothing  !  and  much  wo ! 

Wo  from  heaven's  bounties !  wo  from  what  was  wont 

To  natter  most,  high  intellectual  powers. 

Thought,  virtue,  knowledge !  blessings  by  thy  scheme 

All  poisoned  into  pains.     First,  knowledge,  once 

My  soul's  ambition,  now  her  greatest  dread. 

To  know  myself  true  wisdom  ? — no,  to  shun 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  261 


That  shocking  science,  parent  of  despair ! 

Avert  thy  mirror ;  if  I  see,  I  die. 

Know  my  Creator  ?  climb  his  blest  abode, 

By  painful  speculation  pierce  the  veil, 

Dive  in  his  nature,  read  his  attributes, 

And  gaze  in  admiration — on  a  foe 

Obtruding  life,  withholding  happiness  ? 

From  the  full  rivers  that  surround  his  throne 

Nor  letting  fall  one  drop  of  joy  on  man ; 

Man  gasping  for  one  drop,  that  he  might  cease 

To  curse  his  birth,  nor  envy  reptiles  more ! 

Ye  sable  clouds !  ye  darkest  shades  of  night, 

Hide  Him,  forever  hide  Him,  from  my  thought, 

Once  all  my  comfort ;  source  and  soul  of  joy ! 

Know  his  achievements !  study  his  renown ! 

Contemplate  this  amazing  universe, 

Dropped  from  his  hand  with  miracles  replete ! — 

For  what  ?  'mid  miracles  of  nobler  name 

To  find  one  miracle  of  misery ! 

To  find  the  being  which  alone  can  know 

And  praise  his  works,  a  blemish  on  his  praise  ? 

Through  Nature's  ample  range  in  thought  to  stray, 

And  start  at  man,  the  single  mourner  there, 

Breathing  high  hope  chained  down  to  pangs  and  death. 

Knowing  is  suffering,  and  shall  virtue  share 

The  sigh  of  knowledge  ?     Virtue  shares  the  sigh 

By  straining  up  the  steep  of  excellent ; 

By  battles  fought,  and  from  temptation  won, 

What  gains  she  but  the  pang  of  seeing  worth, 

Angelic  worth,  soon  shuffled  in  the  dark 

With  every  vice,  and  swept  to  brutal  dust  ? 


NO    SPIRITUAL   SUBSTANCE    ANNIHILATED. 

THINK'ST  thou  Omnipotence  a  naked  root, 
Each  blossom  fan*  of  Deity  destroyed  ? 
Nothing  is  dead ;  nay,  nothing  sleeps ;  each  soul 


262  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


That  ever  animated  human  clay 

Now  wakes ;  is  on  the  wing ;  and  when  the  call 

Of  that  loud  trump  collects  us  round  heaven's  throne 

Conglobed,  we  bask  in  everlasting  day. 

How  bright  this  prospect  shines  !  how  gloomy  thine ! 

A  trembling  world,  and  a  devouring  God ! 

Earth,  but  the  shambles  of  Omnipotence ! 

Heaven's  face  all  stained  with  causeless  massacres ; 

Of  countless  millions  born  to  feel  the  pang 

Of  being  lost.     Lorenzo,  can  it  be  ? 

This  bids  us  shudder  at  the  thoughts  of  life. 

Who  would  be  born  to  such  a  phantom  world, 

Where  naught  substantial  but  our  misery  ? 

A  world  where  dark  mysterious  vanity 

Of  good  and  ill  the  distant  colors  blends, 

Confounds  all  reason,  and  all  hope  destroys ; 

A  world  so  far  from  great  (and  yet  how  great 

It  shines  to  thee  !)  there's  nothing  real  in  it ; 

Being  a  shadow  I  consciousness  a  dream  ! 

A  dream,  how  dreadful ;  universal  blank  ! 

Before  it  and  behind  !  poor  man  a  spark — 

From  non-existence  struck  by  wrath  divine, 

Glittering  a  moment,  nor  that  moment  sure, 

'Midst  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  night, 

His  sad,  sure,  sudden,  and  eternal  tomb. 


REASONS     FOR    BELIEF. 

WHAT  am  I  ?  and  from  whence  ?     I  nothing  know 
But  that  I  am ;  and  since  I  am,  conclude 
Something  eternal :  had  there  e'er  been  naught, 
Naught  still  had  been :  eternal  there  must  be  : 
But  what  eternal  ?     Why  not  human  race, 
And  Adam's  ancestors,  without  an  end  ? 
That's  hard  to  be  conceived ;  since  every  link 
Of  that  long  chained  succession  is  so  frail ; 
Can  eveiy  part  depend  and  not  the  whole  ? 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  263 


Yet  grant  it  true ;  new  difficulties  rise ; 

Whence  earth  and  these  bright  orbs  ? — Eternal  too  ? 

Grant  matter  was  eternal ;  still  these  orbs 

Would  want  some  other  father :  much  design 

Is  seen  in  all  their  motions,  all  their  makes ; 

Design  implies  intelligence  and  art ; 

That  can't  be  from  themselves,  or  man :  that  art 

Man  scarce  can  comprehend,  could  man  bestow  ? 

And  nothing  greater  yet  allowed  than  man. 

Who  motion,  foreign  to  the  smallest  srain, 

Shot  through  vast  masses  of  enormous  weight  ? 

Who  bid  brute  matter's  restive  lump  assume 

Such  various  forms,  and  gave  it  wings  to  fly  ? 

Has  matter  innate  motion  ?     Then  each  atom, 

Asserting  its  indisputable  right 

To  dance,  would  form  a  universe  of  dust. 

Has  matter  none  ?     Then  whence  these  glorious  forms 

And  boundless  lights  from  shapeless  and  reposed  ? 

Has  matter  more  than  motion  ?     Has  it  thought, 

Judgment,  and  genius  ?     Is  it  deeply  learned 

In  mathematics  ?     Has  it  framed  such  laws, 

Which  but  to  guess  a  Newton  made  immortal  ? 

If  so,  how  each  sage  alone  laughs  at  me, 

Who  thinks  a  clod  inferior  to  a  man ! 

If  art  to  form  and  counsel  to  conduct, 

And  that  with  greater  far  than  human  skill, 

Resides  not  in  each  block, — a  Godhead  reigns. 

Grant  then  invisible,  eternal  Mind  ; 

That  granted,  all  is  solved — But  granting  that, 

Draw  I  not  o'er  me  still  a  darker  cloud  ? 

Grant  I  not  that  which  I  can  ne'er  conceive  ? 

A  being  without  origin  or  end ! 

Hail,  human  liberty !  there  is  no  God. 

Yet  why  ?  on  either  scheme  the  knot  subsists : 

Subsist  it  must  in  God,  or  human  race. 

If  in  the  last,  how  many  knots  besides, 

Indissoluble  all  ?     Why  choose  it  there, 

Where,  chosen,  still  subsist  ten  thousand  more  ? 


264  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


Reject  it ;  where  that  chosen,  all  the  rest 
Dispersed,  leave  reason's  whole  horizon  clear  ? 
What  vast  preponderance  is  here !  can  reason 
With  louder  voice  exclaim,  Believe  a  God  ? 
What  things  impossible  must  man  think  true, 
On  any  other  system  ?  and  how  strange 
To  disbelieve  through  mere  credulity. 


CONTEMPLATION     OF     THE     HEAVENS 

YET  why  drown  fancy  in  such  depths  as  these  ? 
Return,  presumptuous  rover !  and  confess 
The  bounds  of  man,  nor  blame  them  as  too  small. 
Enjoy  we  not  full  scope  in  what  is  seen? 
Full  ample  the  dominions  of  the  sun ! 
Full  glorious  to  behold  !  how  far,  how  wide, 
The  matchless  monarch,  from  his  flaming  throne, 
Lavish  of  lustre,  throws  his  beams  about  him, 
Farther  and  faster  than  a  thought  can  fly, 
And  feeds  his  planets  with  eternal  fires  ! 
Beyond  this  city  why  strays  human  thought  ? 
One  wonderful  enough  for  man  to  know ! 
One  firmament  enough  for  man  to  read ! 
Nor  is  instruction  here  our  only  gain  : 
There  dwells  a  noble  pathos  in  the  skies, 
Which  warms  our  passions,  proselytes  our  hearts. 
How  eloquently  shines  the  glowing  pole  ! 
With  what  authority  it  gives  its  charge, 
Remonstrating  great  truths  in  style  sublime, 
Though  silent,  loud !  heard  earth  around,  above 
The  planets  heard  ;  and  not  unheard  in  hell ; 
Hell  has  its  wonder,  though  too  proud  to  praise. 

Divine  Instructor  !  thy  first  volume  this, 
For  man's  perusal ;  all  in  capitals ! 
In  moon  and  stars  (heaven's  golden  alphabet !) 
Emblazed  to  seize  the  sight ;  who  runs  may  read, 
Who  reads  can  understand :  'tis  unconfined 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  265 


To  Christian  land,  or  Jewry  ;  fairly  writ 
In  language  universal,  to  mankind  : 
A  language  lofty  to  the  learned,  yet  plain 
To  those  that  feed  the  flock,  or  guide  the  plough, 
Or,  from  its  husk,  strike  out  the  bounding  gram. 
A  language  worthy  the  great  Mind  that  speaks ! 
Preface,  and  comment,  to  the  sacred  page ! 
Stupendous  book  of  wisdom  to  the  wise  ! 
Stupendous  book,  and  opened,  Night !  by  thee. 
By  thee  much  opened,  I  confess,  O  Night ! 
Yet  more  I  wish  ;  say,  gentle  Night,  whose  beams 
Give  us  a  new  creation,  and  present 
The  world's  great  picture,  softened  to  the  sight ; 
Say  thou,  whose  mild  dominion's  silver  key 
Unlocks  our  hemisphere,  and  sets  to  view 
Worlds  beyond  number ;  worlds  concealed  by  day 
Behind  the  proud  and  envious  star  of  noon  ! 
Canst  thou  not  draw  a  deeper  scene  ? — and  show 
The  mighty  Potentate,  to  whom  belong 
These  rich  regalia,  pompously  displayed  ? 
Oh  !  for  a  glimpse  of  Him  my  soul  adores ! 
As  the  chased  hart,  amid  the  desert  waste, 
Pants  for  the  living  stream  ;  for  Him  who  made  her 
So  pants  the  thirsty  soul,  amid  the  blank 
Of  sublunary  joys  ;  say,  goddess,  where  ? 
Where  blazes  his  bright  court  ?  where  burns  his  throne  ? 
Thou  know'st,  for  thou  art  near  Him  ;  by  thee,  round 
His  grand  pavilion,  sacred  fame  reports, 
The  sable  curtains  drawn  :  if  not,  can  none 
Of  thy  fair  daughter-train,  so  swift  of  wing, 
Who  travel  far,  discover  where  He  dwells  ? 
A  star  his  dwelling  pointed  out  below : 
Say  ye,  who  guide  the  wildered  in  the  waves, 
On  which  hand  must  I  bend  my  course  to  find  Him  ? 
These  courtiers  keep  the  secret  of  their  King ; 
I  wake  whole  nights,  in  vain,  to  steal  it  from  them. 
In  ardent  contemplation's  rapid  car, 
From  earth,  as  from  my  barrier,  I  set  out ; 
23 


266  EDWARD    YOUNG. 


How  swift  I  mount !  diminished  earth  recedes  ; 

I  pass  the  moon  ;  and,  from  her  further  side, 

Pierce  heaven's  blue  curtain ;  pause  at  every  planet. 

And  ask  for  Him  who  gives  their  orbs  to  rofl 

From  Saturn's  ring  I  take  my  bolder  flight, 

Amid  those  sovereign  glories  of  the  skies, 

Of  independent,  native  lustre,  proud  ; 

The  souls  of  systems ! — What  behold  I  now  ? 

A  wilderness  of  wonders  burning  round, 

Where  larger  suns  inhabit  higher  spheres. 

Nor  halt  I  here  ;  my  toil  is  but  begun  ; 

'Tis  but  the  threshold  of  the  Deity, 

Or  far  beneath  it  I  am  grovelling  still. 


LIFE,    DEATH,    AND    IMMORTALITY. 

TIRED  nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  ! 

He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 

Where  fortune  smiles ;  the  wretched  he  forsakes ; 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinions  flies  from  wo, 

And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  repose 

I  wake  :  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more  ! 

Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave. 

I  wake  :  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 

Tumultuous ;  where  my  wrecked,  desponding  thoughts 

From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 

At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 

Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of  pain, 

(A  bitter  change !)  severer  for  severe  : 

The  day  too  short  for  my  distress ;  and  night, 

E'en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 

Is  sunshine  to  the  color  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  goddess  !  from  her  ebon  throne 
In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumbering  world. 
Silence  how  dead !  and  darkness  how  profound  ! 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  267 


Nor  eye  nor  listening  ear  an  object  finds  : 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  nature  made  a  pause, 
An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled  : 
Fate !  drop  the  curtain  ;  I  can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  Darkness  :  solemn  sisters  !  twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man, 
Assist  me :  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave  ; 
The  grave  your  kingdom  :  there  this  frame  shall  fall' 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye  ? — 

Thou  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  silence,  when  the  morning  stars 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  vale. 

0  Thou !  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul ; 
My  soul  which  flies  to  Thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     Oh  !  lead  my  mind, 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  wo,) 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song  ; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason  ;  my  best  will, 
Teach  rectitude ;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear  : 
Nor  let  the  vial  of  thy  vengeance,  poured 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of  tune 
But  from  its  loss :  to  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 

1  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 


268  EDWARD    YOUNG 


Where  are  they  ?     With  the  years  beyond  the  flood. 

It  is  the  signal  that  demands  dispatch  : 

How  much  is  to  be  done  !     My  hopes  and  fears 

Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 

Look  down — on  what  ?     A  fathomless  abyss : 

A  dread  eternity !  how  surely  mine ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour  ? 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man ! 

How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such ! 

Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes  I 

From  different  natures,  marvellously  mixed, 

Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 

Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 

Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  ! 

A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorbed  ! 

Though  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine  ! 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute ! 

An  heir  of  glory !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 

Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 

A  worm  !  a  god ! — I  tremble  at  myself, 

And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home  a  stranger, 

Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 

And  wondering  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels  1 

Oh !  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 

Triumphantly  distressed  !  what  joy  !  what  dread  ! 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed ! 

What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave  ! 

Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 

PLEASURE. 

PLEASURES  are  fled,  and  fewer  we  enjoy  ; 
Pleasure,  like  quicksilver,  is  bright  and  coy  : 
We  strive  to  grasp  it  with  our  utmost  skill ; 
Still  it  eludes  us,  and  it  glitters  still ; 


EDWARD    YOUNG.  269 


If  seized  at  last,  compute  your  mighty  gains ; 
What  is  it  but  rank  poison  in  your  veins  ? 


GAMBLING. 

IMMORTAL  were  we,  or  else  mortal  quite, 
I  less  should  blame  this  criminal  delight ; 
But  since  the  gay  assembly's  gayest  room 
Is  but  an  upper  story  to  some  tomb, 
Methinks  we  need  not  our  short  being  shun, 
And  thought  to  fly,  content  to  be  undone. 
We  need  not  buy  our  ruin  with  our  crime, 
And  give  eternity  to  murder  time. 


X  RESIGNATION. 

THESE  hearts,  alas  !  cleave  to  the  dust 
By  strong  and  endless  ties : 

Whilst  every  sorrow  cuts  a  string, 
And  urges  us  to  rise. 

When  heaven  would  kindly  set  us  free, 
And  earth's  enchantment  end  ; 

It  takes  the  most  effectual  way, 
And  robs  us  of  a  friend. 

Resign, — and  all  the  load  of  life 
That  moment  you  remove ; 

Its  heavy  load,  ten  thousand  cares, 
Devolve  on  One  above — 

Who  bids  us  lay  our  burden  down, 

On  his  almighty  hand  ; 
Softens  our  duty  to  relief, 

Our  blessings  to  command. 
23* 


270  ROBERT    BLAIR. 


ROBERT  BLAIR, 

THE  author  of  "  The  Grave,"  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  minister  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  was  born  in  that  city  in  1699.  He  graduated  at  the  uni- 
versity of  his  native  city,  travelled  on  the  continent,  and  on  his  return, 
in  1731,  was  ordained  to  a  parish  in  East  Lothian,  where,  living  in  a 
gentlemanly  style,  he  discharged  the  duties  of  his  profession  in  an 
exemplary  manner,  and  gave  his  leisure  to  the  cultivation  of  his  gar- 
den, to  science,  and  to  literature!  He  died  on  the  4th  of  February, 
1746,  and  was  succeeded  in  his  office  by  Home,  the  author  of  "  Doug- 
lass." The  reputation  of  Blair  rests  chiefly  upon  "  The  Grave,"  originally 
published  in  London,  through  the  kindly  offices  of  Doddridge,  in  1743. 
The  execution  of  the  poem  is  uneven ;  it  has  some  striking  faults ; 
but  the  work  is  altogether  justly  described  by  Hazlitt  as  "  a  serious  and 
somewhat  gloomy  poem,  pregnant  with  striking  reflections  and  fine 
fancy." 

A  SHOOLBOY,  AT  NIGHT,  IN  A  CHURCHYARD. 

OFT  in  the  lone  churchyard  at  night  I've  seen, 

By  glimpse  of  moonlight  check'ring  through  the  trees, 

The  schoolboy  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand, 

Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up, 

And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones 

(With  nettles  skirted,  and  with  moss  o'ergrown) 

That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lies  below. 

Sudden  he  starts,  and  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears, 

The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels  : 

Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dares  not  look  behind,  - 

Till,  out  of  breath,  he  overtakes  his  fellows, 

Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 

Of  horrid  apparition  pale  and  ghastly, 

That  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his  stand 

O'er  some  new-opened  grave — and  (strange  to  tell) 

Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 


ROBERT    BLAIR.  271 


A    RICH    MAN    SURPRISED    BY    DEATH. 

IN  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Raves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement, 
Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help, 
But  shrieks  in  vain !  how  wistfully  she  looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  hers  ! 
A  little  longer,  yet  a  little  longer, 
0  !  might  she  stay  to  wash  away  her  stains, 
And  fit  her  for  her  passage.     Mournful  sight ; 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood  ;  and  every  groan 
She  heaves  is  big  with  horror.    But  the  foe, 
Like  a  stanch  murderer,  steady  to  his  purpose, 
Pursues  her  close  through  every  lane  of  life, 
Nor  misses  once  the  track,  but  presses  on ; 
Till  forced  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge, 
At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin ! 


272  JAMES    THOMSON. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 

THIS  eminent  poet  was  born  at  Ednam,  in  Roxburghshire,  in  1700. 
He  was  educated  at  Jedburgh  and  Edinburgh,  and  was  intended  for 
the  ministry.  Poetry,  however,  led  him  aside  from  this  path,  and  in 
1725  he  went  to  London,  where  he  soon  attracted  notice  by  the  publi- 
cation of  his  «  Winter,"  and  was  patronised  by  the  Lord  Chancellor 
Talbot,  with  whose  son  he  travelled  afterwards  on  the  Continent. 
After  this  nobleman's  death,  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Frederic, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  Mr.  Lyttleton.  He  died  in  1748.  Thomson  is 
described  by  Hazlitt  as  the  best  and  most  original  of  the  British  de- 
scriptive poets.  "  He  had  nature,  but  through  indolence  or  affectation, 
too  often  embellished  it  with  the  gaudy  ornaments  of  art.  He  some- 
times rises  into  sublimity;  he  has  occasional  pathos,  and  wit,  and  hu- 
mor too,  of  a  most  voluptuous  kind."  Perhaps  the  best  recent  criticisrr 
of  Thomson  may  be  found  in  Professor  Wilson's  writings. 

A    HYMN    ON    THE    SEASONS. 

THESE  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields :  the  softening  air  is  balm, 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer  montns, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year ; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  and  hollow  whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter,  awful  Thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 


JAMES    THOMSON.  273 


Majestic  darkness !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing 

Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore, 

And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round  !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 

Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful  mixed  with  such  kind  an, 

Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ! 

Shade  unperceived  so  soft'ning  into  shade, 

And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 

That  as  they  still  succeed  they  ravish  still. 

But  wand'ring  oft  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 

Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand 

That  ever  busy  wheels  the  silent  spheres ; 

Works  in  the  secret  deep ;  shoots  teeming  thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring  ; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 

Feeds  every  creature ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth ; 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend !  join  every  living  soul 

Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 

In  adoration  join :  and  ardent  raise 

One  general  song !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 

Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes. 

Oh !  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms, 

Where  o'er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake  th'  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 

Th'  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills, 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 

Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  his  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 


274  JAMES    THOMSON. 


Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun  exalts, 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  p'aints. 

Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave  to  Him ! 

Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the. joyous  moon. 

Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth,  asleep 

Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams, 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source. of  day !  best  image  here  below 

Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  Avide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

On  nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls  !  be  hushed  :the  .prostrate  world, 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  ;  ye  mossy  Crocks, 

Retain  the  sound :  the  broad  responsive  low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise  :  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns ; 

And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

Ye  woodlands,  all  awake  !     A  boundless  song 

Bursts  from  the  groves !  and  when  the  restless  day, 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 

Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  .charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach!  the  night  his  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 

Grown  the  great  hymn  !  in -swarming  cities  vast 

Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long  resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear 

At  solemn  pauses  through  the  swelling  base  ; 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases,  each 

In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 

Or  if  you  rather  .choose  the  rural  shade, 

And  find  a  fane  in  every  :sacred  grove, 

There  let  the 'shepherd's  flute;  the  virgin's  lay 

The  .prompting  seraph,  and  the  .'poet's  lyre, 

•Still  sing  the  God- of  Seasons  as  .they  roll. 


JAMES    T  HUMS  OX.  275 


For  me — when  1  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  autumn  gleams, 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint,  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 
Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song,  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles  ; — 'tis  naught  to  me, 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full : 
And  where  He  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I  cheerful  will  obey  ;  there,  with  new  powers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing :  I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs  and  all  their  suns — - 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  Ineffable. 
Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his  praise* 


276  CHARLES  WESLEY. 


CHARLES  WESLEY. 

CHARLES  WESLEY  was  the  brother  of  the  more  celebrated  John 
Wesley,  and,  like  him,  was  an  eloquent  preacher.  His  Hymns  have 
great  sweetness  of  style  and  sentiment,  and  they  are  nearly  all  retained 
in  the  collections  of  the  Methodist  Church. 


JUDGMENT. 

THOU  Judge  of  quick  and  dead, 

Before  whose  bar  severe, 
With  holy  joy  or  guilty  dread, 

We  all  shall  soon  appear : 
Our  sinful  souls  prepare 

For  that  tremendous  day  ; 
And  fill  us  now  with  watchful  care, 

And  stir  us  up  to  pray. 

To  pray,  and  wait  the  hour, 

That  awful  hour  unknown  ; 
When  robed  in  majesty  and  power, 

Thou  shalt  from  heaven  come  down, 
Th'  immortal  Son  of  man, 

To  judge  the  human  race, 
With  all  thy  Father's  dazzling  train, 

With  all  thy  glorious  grace. 

To  damp  our  earthly  joys, 

T'  increase  our  gracious  fears, 
Forever  let  the  Archangel's  voice 

Be  sounding  in  our  ears. 
The  solemn  midnight  cry, 

"  Ye  dead,  the  Judge  is  came ; 
Arise,  and  meet  him  in  the  sky, 

And  meet  your  instant  doom  I" 


JAMES    MERRICK.  277 


0  may  we  thus  be  found 

Obedient  to  his  word  ; 
Attentive  to  the  trumpet's  sound, 

And  looking  for  our  Lord  ! 
0  may  we  all  ensure 

A  lot  among  the  blest ! 
And  watch  a  moment,  to  secure 

An  everlasting  rest. 


JAMES    MERRICK 

born  at  Reading  in  1720.  He  was  the  author  of  several  hymns, 
the  most  beautiful  of  which  is  that  well-known  piece,  "  Placed  on  the 
Verge  of  Youth."  He  also  published  a  new  version  of  the  Psalms, 
which  bears  little  affinity  to  the  inspired  original.  He  died  in  1766. 


'   THE     IGNORANCE     OF    MAN. 

BEHOLD  yon  new-born  infant,  grieved 
With  hunger,  thirst,  and  pain, 

That  asks  to  have  the  wants  relieved ; 
It  knows  not  to  complain. 

Aloud  the  speechless  suppliant  cries, 

And  utters  as  it  can 
The  woes  that  in  its  bosom  rise, 

And  speak  its  nature  man. 

That  infant,  whose  advancing  hour, 
Life's  various  sorrows  try, 

(Sad  proof  of  sin's  transmissive  power,) 
That  infant,  Lord,  am  I. 

A  childhood  yet  my  thoughts  confess, 
Though  long  hi  years  mature, 

Unknowing  whence  I  feel  distress, 
And  where,  or  what,  its  cure. 
24 


278  JAMES    MERRICK. 


Author  of  good  !  to  Thee  I  turn  : 

Thy  ever-wakeful  eye 
Alone  can  all. my.  wants  discern, 

Thy.  hand  alone  supply. 

Oh !  let  thy  fear  within  me  dwell,  . 

Thy  love.  my -footsie  ps,  guide ;     ', 
That  love  shall  vainer  loves;  expel, 

That  fear  all  fear  beside. 

And  oh  !  by  error's  force  subdued, 
Since  oft  my.  stubborn  will, 

Preposterous  slums  the  latent  gopd, 
And  grasps  the  specious  ill, 

Not  to  my  wish,  but  to  my  want, 
Do  i'hou"  thy  gifts  supply '; 

Unasked,  what  good  Thou  Tmowest,  grant, 
What  ill,  thoug;h  asked,  deny. 


NUNC      DIMITTIS 

'Tis  enough— the  hour  is  come  : 
Now  within  the  silent  tomb 
Let  this  mortal  frame  decay, 
Mingled  with  its  kindred  clay  ; 
Since  thy  mercies,  oft  of  old 
By  thy  chosen  seers  foretold, 
Faithful  now  and  steadfast  prove, 
God  of  truth,  and  God  of  love  ! 
Since  at  length,  my  aged  eye 
Sees  the  dayspring  from  on  high ; 
Sun  of  righteousness,  to  Thee 
Lo  !  the  nations  bow  the  knee ; 
And  the  realms  of  distant  kings 
Own  the  healing  of  thy  wings. 
Those  whom  death  had  overspread 
With  his  dark  and  dreary  shade, 


JAMES    MERR1CK. 


Lift  their  eyes,  and  from  afar 
Hail  the  light  of  Jacob's  Star, 
Waiting  till  the  promised  ray 
Turn  their  darkness  into  day. 
See  the  beams  intensely  shed 
Shine  o'er  Zion's  favored  head ! 
-Never  may  they  hence  remove, 
God  of  truth,  and  God  of  love  ! 


'THE    PRQYIPENCE    OF    GOD. 

. 
PLACED  on  the  verge  of  youth,  my  mind 

Life's  opening  scene  surveyed  ; 
I  viewed  its  ills  of  various  kind,' 
Afflicted  and  afraid. 

But  chief  my  fear  the  dangers  moved, 
That  virtue's  path  enclose  : 

My  heart  the  wise  pursuit  approved, 
But,  oh  !  what  toils  oppose. 

For  see  1  ah  see  !  while  yet  her  ways 
With  doubtful  step  I  tread, 

A  hostile  world  its  .terrors  raise, 
Its  snares  delusive  spread. 

Oh !  how  shall  I,  with  heart  prepared, 
Those  terrors  learn  to  meet  ? 

How  from  the  thousand  snares  to  guard 
My  inexperienced  feet  ? 

As  thus  I  mused,  oppressive  sleep 
Soft  o'er  my  temples  drew 

Oblivious  veil. — The  watery  deep, 
An  object  strange  and  new, 

Before  me  rose  :  on  the  wide  shore 

Observant  as  I  stood, 
The  gathering  storms  around  me  roar, 

And  heave  the  boiling  flood. 


280  JAMES    MERRICK. 


Xear,  and  more  near  the  billows  rise, 
E'en  now  my  steps  they  lave ; 

And  death  to  my  affrighted  eyes 
Approached  in  every  wave. 

What  hope,  or  whither  to  retreat, 
Each  nerve  at  once  unstrung  : 

Chill  fear  had  fettered  fast  my  feet, 

And  chained  my  speechless  tongue. 

I  feel  my  heart  within  me  die ; 

When  sudden  to  mine  ear 
A  voice  descending  from  on  high 

Reproved  my  erring  fear. 

"  What  though  the  swelling  surge  thou  see 

Impatient  to  devour, 
Rest,  mortal,  rest,  on  God's  decree, 

And  thankful  own  his  power. 

*'  Know  when  He  bade  the  deep  appear, 
'  Thus  far,'  the  Almighty  said, 

'  Thus  far,  nor  farther,  rage,  and  here 
Let  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed.' J1 

I  heard,  and  lo !  at  once  controlled, 

The  waves  in  wild  retreat 
Back  on  themselves  reluctant  rolled, 

And  murmuring  left  my  feet. 

Deeps  to  assembling  deeps  in  vain 

Once  more  the  signal  gave  ; 
The  shores  the  rushing  weight  sustain, 

And  check  th'  usurping  wave. 

Convinced  in  nature's  volume  wise, 

The  imaged  truth  I  read, 
And  sudden  from  my  waking  eyes 

The  instructive  vision  fled. 


JAMES    MERRICK.  281 


Then  why  thus  heavy,  0  my  soul ! 

Say,  why  distrustful  still, 
Thy  thoughts  with  vain  impatience  roll 

O'er  scenes  of  future  ill  ? 

Let  faith  suppress  each  rising  fear, 
Each  anxious  doubt  exclude  ; 

Thy  Maker's  will  has  placed  thee  here, 
A  Maker  wise  and  good. 

He  to  thy  every  trial  knows 

Its  just  restraint  to  give, 
Attentive  to  behold  thy  woes, 

And  faithful  to  relieve. 

Then  why  thus  heavy,  0  my  soul ! 

Say,  why  distrustful  still, 
Thy  thoughts  with  vain  impatience  roll 

O'er  scenes  of  future  ill  ? 

Though  griefs  unnumbered  throng  thee  round, 

Still  in  thy  God  confide, 
Whose  finger  marks  the  seas  their  bound, 

And  curbs  the^eadlong  tide. 
24* 


282  CHRISTOPHER    SMART. 


CHRISTOPHER   SMART. 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART  was  born  at  Shipbourne,  in  Kent,  in  1722,  ana 
was  educated  at  Cambridge.  He  was  elected  Fellow  of  Pembroke 
Hall  in  1745,  and  took  the  degree  of  M.  A.  in  1747.  Shortly  after  ho 
removed  to  London,  where  he  became  acquainted  witn  the  most  cele- 
brated men  of  his  day.  He  was  subject  to  fits  of  insanity,  which  were 
at  last  attended  with  paroxysms  so  violent  that  he  was  obliged  to  be 
placed  in  a  madhouse.  He  died,  a  prisoner  for  debt,  in  the  King's 
Bench,  on  the  10th  of  May,  1770. 

Smart  seems  to  have  had  much  respect  and  sympathy,  notwithstand- 
ing his  dissolute  and  unhappy  life.  "  His  piety,"  says  Southey,  "  was 
so  fervent,  that  when  composing  his  religious  poems  he  was  frequently 
so  impressed  as  to  write  upon  his  knees."  His  works  possess  con- 
siderable merit.  They  are  recommended,  as  Mr.  Wilmot  observes,  by 
an  air  of  sincerity  and  enthusiasm ;  but  they  are  generally  wanting  ir 
finish. 

INVOCATION. 

ARISE,  divine  Urania,  with  new  strains 

To  hymn  thy  God !  and  they,  immortal  Fame, 

Arise,  and  blow  thy  everlasting  trump  ! 

All  glory  to  the  Omniscient,  and  praise, 

And  power,  and  domination  in  the  height ! 

And  thou,  cherubic  Gratitude,  whose  voice 

To  pious  ears  sounds  silvery,  so  sweet, 

Come  with  thy  precious  incense,  bring  thy  gifts, 

And  with  thy  choicest  stores  the  altar  crown. 

Thou,  too,  my  heart,  whom  He,  and  He  alone 

Who  all  things  knows,  can  know,  with  love  replete, 

Regenerate,  and  pure,  pour  all  thyself 

A  living  sacrifice  before  his  throne  ! 

And  may  the  eternal  high  mysterious  tree 

That  in  the  centre  of  the  arched  heavens 

Bears  the  rich  fruit  of  knowledge,  with  some  branch 

Stoop  to  my  humble  reach,  and  bless  my  toil ! 


CHRISTOPHER    SMART.  283 


THE     FINAL     JUDGMENT. 

A  DAY  shall  come  when  all  this  earth  shall  perish, 
Nor  leave  behind  e'en  chaos ;  it  shall  come 
When  all  the  armies  of  the  elements 
Shall  war  against  themselves,  and  mutual  rage, 
To  make  perdition  triumph  ;  it  shall  come 
When  the  capacious  atmosphere  above 
Shall  in  sulphureous  thunders  groan  and  die, 
And  vanish  into  void  ;  the  earth  beneath 
Shall  sever  to  the  centre,  and  devour 
The  enormous  blaze  of  the  destructive  flames. 
Ye  rocks  that  mock  the  raving  of  the  floods, 
And  proudly  frown  upon  the  impatient  deep, 
Where  is  your  grandeur  now  ?     Ye  foaming  waves, 
That  all  along  the  immense  Atlantic  roar, 
In  vain  ye  swell ;  will  a  few  drops  suffice 
To  quencli  the  unextinguishable  fire  ? 
Ye  mountains,  on  whose  cloud-crowned  tops  the  cedars 
Are  lessened  into  shrubs,  magnific  piles, 
That  prop  the  painted  chambers  of  the  heavens, 
And  fix  the  earth  continual ;  Athos,  where  ? 
Where,  Teneriffe,  's  thy  stateliness  to-day  ? 
What,  ^Etna,  are  thy  flames  to  these  ?  no  more 
Than  the  poor  glow-worm  to  the  golden  sun. 

Nor  shall  the  verdant  valleys  then  remain 
Safe  in  their  meek  submission  ;  they  the  debt 
Of  nature  and  of  justice  too  must  pay. 
Yet  I  must  weep  for  you,  ye  rivals  fair, 
Arno  and  Andalusia  ;  but  for  thee, 
More  largely,  and  with  filial  tears  must  weep, 
O  Albion  !  0  my  country  !  thou  must  join, 
In  vain  dissevered  from  the  rest,  must  join 
The  terrors  of  the  inevitable  ruin. 
Nor  thou,  illustrious  monarch  of  the  day  ; 
Nor  thou,  fair  queen  of  night ;  nor  you,  ye  stars, 
Though  million  leagues,  and  million  still,  remote, 
Shall  yet  survive  that  day  :  ye  must  submit, 


284  CHRISTOPHER    SMART. 


Sharers,  not  bright  spectators  of  the  scene. 

But  though  the  earth  shall  to  the  centre  perish, 

Nor  leave  behind  e'en  chaos  ;  though  the  air, 

With  all  the  elements,  must  pass  away, 

Vain  as  an  idiot's  dream  ;  though  the  huge  rocks 

That  brandish  the  tall  cedars  on  their  tops, 

With  humbler  vales,  must  to  perdition  yield  ; 

Though  the  gilt  sun,  and  silver-tressed  moon, 

With  all  her  bright  retinue,  must  be  lost ; 

Yet  Thou,  Great  Father  of  the  world,  survivest, 

Eternal  as  Thou  wert :  yet  still  survives, 

The  soul  of  man  immortal,  perfect  now, 

And  candidate  for  unexpiring  joys. 

He  comes  !  He  comes  !  the  awful  trump  I  hear : 

The  flaming  sword's  intolerable  blaze 

I  see  !    He  comes,  th'  archangel  from  above. 

"  Arise,  ye  tenants  of  the  silent  grave, 

Awake,  ye  incorruptible,  arise  ; 

From  east  to  west,  from  the  Antarctic  pole 

To  regions  Hyperborean,  all  ye  sons, 

Ye  sons  of  Adam,  and  ye  heirs  of  heaven — 

Arise,  ye  tenants  of  the  silent  grave, 

Awake,  ye  incorruptible,  arise." 

Tis  then,  not  sooner,  that  the  restless  mind 

Shall  find  itself  at  home  :  and  like  the  ark 

Fixed  on  the  mountain-top,  shall  look  aloft, 

O'er  the  vague  passage  of  precarious  life. 

THE     ANT     AND     THE     BEE. 

Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  learn  to  live, 
And  by  her  wary  ways  reform  thine  own. 
But  if  thy  deadened  sense  and  listless  thought 
More  glaring  evidence  demand,  behold 
Where  yon  pellucid  populous  hive  presents 
A  yet  uncopied  model  to  the  world  ! 
There  Machiavel  in  the  reflecting  glass 
May  lead  himself  a  fool.     The  chemist  there 


CHRISTOPHER    SMART.  285 

May  with  astonishment  invidious  view 
His  toils  outdone  by  each  plebeian  bee, 
Who,  at  the  royal  mandate,  on  the  wing 
From  various  herbs  and  from  discordant  flowers 
A  perfect  harmony  of  sweets  compounds. 

GOODNESS      OF     GOD. 

IMMENSE  Creator  !  whose  all-powerful  hand 
Framed  universal  being,  and  whose  eye 
Saw,  like  Thyself,  ail  things  were  formed  for  good ; 
Where  shall  the  timorous  bard  thy  praise  begin, 
Where  end  the  purest  sacrifice  of  song 
And  just  thanksgiving  ?     The  thought-kindling  light. 
Thy  prime  production,  darts  upon  my  mind ; 
Its  vivifying  beams  my  heart  illumes, 
Arid  fills  my  soul  with  gratitude  and  Thee. 
Hail  to  the  cheerful  rays  of  ruddy  morn 
That  paint  the  streaky  east,  and  blithesome  rouse 
The  birds,  the  cattle,  and  mankind  from  rest. 
Hail  to  the  freshness  of  the  early  breeze, 
And  Iris  dancing  on  the  new-fallen  dew. 
Without  the  aid  of  yonder  golden  globe, 
Lost  were  the  garnet's  lustre,  lost  the  lily, 
The  tulip  and  auricula's  spotted  pride ; 
Lost  were  the  peacock's  plumage,  to  the  sight 
So  pleasing  in  its  pomp  and  glossy  show. 
.    O  !  thrice  illustrious,  were  it  not  for  thee, 
Those  pansies,  that  reclining  from  the  bank, 
View  through  th'  immaculate  pellucid  stream 
Their  portraiture  in  the  inverted  heaven, 
Might  as  well  change  their  triple  boast  the  while, 
The  purple  and  the  gold  that  far  outvie 
The  eastern  monarch's  garment,  e'en  with  the  dock, 
E'en  with  the  baleful  hemlock's  irksome  green 
Without  thy  aid,  without  thy  gladsome  beams, 
The  tribes  of  woodland  warblers  would  remain 
Mute  on  the  bending  branches,  nor  recite 


286  CHRISTOPHER    SMART. 


The  praise  of  Him,  who  ere  He  formed  their  lord, 

Their  voices  tuned  to  transport,  winged  their  flight, 

And  bade  them  call  for  nurture,  and  receive : 

And  lo  !  they  call ;  the  blackbird  and  the  thrush, 

The  woodlark  and  the  redbreast,  jointly  call ; 

He  hears  and  feeds  their  feathered  families  ; 

He  feeds  his  sweet  musicians,  nor  neglects 

The  invoking  ravens  in  the  greenwood  wide  ; 

And  though  their  throats'  coarse  rattling  meet  the  ear, 

They  mean  it  all  for  music,  thanks,  and  praise  ; 

They  mean,  and  leave  ingratitude  to  man. 

But  not  to  all ! — for  hark  !  the  organs  blow 

Their  swelling  notes  round  the  cathedral's  dome, 

And  grace  the  harmonious  choir,  celestial  feast 

To  pious  ears,  and  medicine  of  the  mind  1 

The  thrilling  trebles,  and  the  manly  base, 

Join  in  accordance  meet,  and  with  one  voice 

All  to  the  sacred  subject  suit  their  song. 

While  in  each  breast  sweet  melancholy  reigns 

Angelically  pensive,  till  the  joy 

Improves  and  purifies ;  the  solemn  scene 

The  sun  through  storied  panes  surveys  with  awe, 

And  bashfully  withholds  each  golden  beam. 

Here,  as  her  home,  from  morn  to  eve  frequents 

The  cherub  Gratitude  ;  behold  her  eyes  ! 

With  love  and  gladness  weepingly  they  shed 

Ecstatic  smiles  ;  the  incense  that  her  hands 

Uprear,  is  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  May 

Caught  from  the  nectarine's  blossom,  and  her  voice 

Is  more  than  voice  can  tell ;  to  Him  she  sings, 

To  Him  who  feeds,  who  clothes,  and  who  adorns, 

Who  made,  and  who  preserves,  whatever  dwells 

In  air,  in  steadfast  earth,  or  fickle  sea. 

Oh  !  He  is  good,  He  is  immensely  good  ! 

Who  all  things  formed,  and  formed  them  all  for  man ; 

Who  marked  the  climates,  varied  every  zone, 

Dispensing  all  his  blessings  for  the  best, 

In  order  and  in  beauty  !     Rise,  attend, 


CHRISTOPHER    SMART.  287 


Attest,  and  praise,  ye  quarters  of  the  world ! 

Bow  down,  ye  elephants,  submissive  bow 

To  Him  who  made  the  mite.     Though,  Asia's  pride, 

Ye  carry  armies  on  your  tower-crowned  backs, 

And  grace  the  turbaned  tyrants,  bow  to  Him 

Who  is  as  great,  as  perfect,  and  as  good 

In  his  less  striking  wonders,  till  at  length 

The  eye's  at  fault  and  seeks  the  assisting  glass  ; 

Approach,  and  bring  from  Araby  the  Blest 

The  fragrant  cassia,  frankincense,  and  myrrh, 

And,  meekly  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot, 

Lay  all  the  tributary  incense  down. 

Stoop,  feeble  Africa,  with  reverence  stoop, 

And  from  thy  brow  take  off  the  painted  plume  ; 

With  golden  ingots  all  thy  camels  load 

To  adorn  his  temples  ;  hasten  with  thy  spear 

Reverted,  and  thy  trusty  bow  unstrung, 

While,  unpursued,  thy  lions  roam  and  roar, 

And  ruined  towers,  rude  rocks,  and  caverns  wide, 

Remurmur  to  the  glorious  surly  sound. 

And  thou,  fair  India,  whose  immense  domain 

To  counterpoise  the  hemisphere,  extends, 

Haste  from  the  west,  and  with  thy  fruits  and  flowers, 

Thy  mines  and  medicines,  wealthy  maid,  attend. 

More  than  the  plenteousness  so  famed  to  flow, 

By  fabling  bards,  from  Amalthea's  horn, 

Is  thine  !  thine,  therefore,  be  a  portion  due 

Of  thanks  and  praise  :  come  with  thy  brilliant  crown 

And  vest  of  fur  ;  and  from  thy  fragrant  lap, 

Pomegranates  and  the  rich  ananas  pour. 

But  chiefly  thou,  Europa,  seat  of  grace 

And  Christian  excellence,  his  goodness  own  ; 

Forth  from  ten  thousand  temples  pour  his  praise  ; 

Clad  in  the  armor  of  the  living  God, 

Approach,  unsheath  the  Spirit's  flaming  sword ; 

Faith's  shield,  salvation's  glory-compassed  helm, 

With  fortitude  assume,  and  o'er  your  heart 

Fair  truth's  invulnerable  breastplate  spread  ; 


288  CHRISTOPHER    SMART. 

Then  join  the  general  chorus  of  all  worlds, 

And  let  the  sons  of  chanty  begin, 

In  strains  seraphic  and  melodious  prayer  : 

"  O  All-sufficient,  All-beneficent ! 
Thou  God  of  goodness  and  of  glory,  hear  ! 
Thou  who  to  lowest  minds  dost  condescend, 
Assuming  passions  to  enforce  thy  laws, 
Adopting  jealousy  to  prove  thy  love  ! 
Thou  who  resigned  humility  upholdest, 
E'en  as  the  florist  props  the  drooping  rose ; 
But  quellest  tyrannic  pride  with  peerless  power, 
E'en  as  the  tempest  rives  the  stubborn  oak ! 

0  All-sufficient,  All-beneficent  1 

Thou  God  of  goodness  and  of  glory,  hear ! 
Bless  all  mankind,  and  bring  them  in  the  end 
To  heaven,  to  immortality,  and  Thee  !" 

GOD     IN     MAN. 

VAIN  were  the  attempt,  and  impious,  to  trace 
Through  all  his  works  th'  Artificer  Divine. 
And  though  nor  shining  sun  nor  twinkling  star 
Bedecked  the  crimson  curtains  of  the  sky  ; 
Though  neither  vegetable,  beast,  nor  bird, 
Were  extant  on  the  surface  of  the  ball, 
JTor  lurking  gem  beneath ;  though  the  great  sea 
Slept  in  profound  stagnation,  and  the  air 
Had  left  no  thunder  to  pronounce  its  Maker ; 
Yet  man,  at  home  within  himself,  might  find 
The  Deity  immense,  and  in  that  frame, 
So  fearfully,  so  wonderfully  made, 
See  and  adore  his  providence  and  power. 

1  see  and  I  adore  ; — 0  God,  most  bounteous  ! 
Oh  !  infinite  of  goodness  and  of  glory, 

The  knee  that  Thou  hast  shaped  shall  bend  to  Thee 
The  tongue  which  Thou  hast  tuned  shall  chant  thy -praise, 
And  thine  own  image,  the  immortal  soul, 
Shall  consecrate  herself  to  Thee  forever. 


CHRISTOPHER    SMART.  289 


SUBLIME  invention,  ever  young, 

Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue, 

To  God  the  eternal  theme  ; 
Notes  from  your  exaltations  caught, 
Unrivalled  royalty  of  thought, 

O'er  meaner  thoughts  supreme. 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce, 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage  : 
Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — that  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends 
From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes, 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  secrecy  remains  hi  buss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

"  Tell  them  I  am,"  Jehovah  said 

To  Moses,  while  earth  heard  in  dread, 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  "  0  Lord  !  Thou  art." 

1  This  poem  was  composed  during  the  author's  confinement  in  a  mad- 
houso.  Being  deprived  of  pen  and  ink,  he  "  was  obliged  to  indent  his  lines 
with  the  end  of  a  key  upon  the  wainscot." 

25 


290  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


WILLIAM  COWPER, 

ONE  of  tha  finest  religious,  meditative,  and  descriptive  English  po- 
ets, was  born  at  Berkhamstead,  in  Hertfordshire,  in  1731.  After 
being  some  time  at  Westminster,  he  was  articled  to  an  attorney,  and 
at  the  end  of  three  years,  entered  himself  of  the  Middle  Temple.  His 
temperament  quite  unfitted  him  for  the  legal  profession,  and  the  inter 
est  of  his  friends  secured  for  him  the  place  of  clerk  to  the  House  of 
Lords,  but  his  nervousness  compelled  him  to  resign  it,  and  he  fell  into 
a  condition  of  mental  debility  which  made  it  necessary  to  place  him  in 
a  lunatic  asylum.  Recovering  his  powers,  he  retired  to  Huntingdon, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  the  family  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Unwin, 
and  after  that  gentleman's  death,  he  removed  with  his  widow  to  Olney, 
where  he  formed  a  lasting  intimacy  with  the  Rev.  John  Newton  and 
with  Lady  Austen.  Here,  though  afflicted  with  continual  ill  health, 
and  a  constitutional  melancholy,  he  made  his  admirable  translation  of 
Homer,  and  wrote  those  noble  original  poems  which  have  secured  for 
him  a  rank  among  the  great  authors  of  his  age  and  country.  His 
principal  work,  "  The  Task,"  in  six  books,  is  so  well  known  to  the 
lovers  of  religious  poetry,  that  any  account  of  it  is  scarcely  necessa- 
ry ;  and  his  "  Tirocinium,"  "  Hymns,"  &c.,  are  all  in  their  kind  of  the 
first  class  in  English  literature.  "  He  is,  after  Thomson,"  says  Mr. 
Hazlitt,  "  the  best  of  our  descriptive  poets, — but  with  less  warmth  of 
feeling  and  natural  enthusiasm  than  the  author  of '  The  Seasons.'  He 
has  also  fine  manly  sense,  a  pensive  and  interesting  turn  of  thought, 
tenderness,  occasionally  running  into  the  most  touching  pathos,  and  a 
patriotic  or  religious  zeal,  mounting  almost  into  sublimity.  He  had 
great  simplicity  with  terseness  of  style  :  his  occasional  copies  of  verses 
have  great  elegance,  and  his  '  John  Gilpin'  is  one  of  the  most  humor- 
ous pieces  in  the  language."  The  piety,  genius,  and  learning  of  Cow- 
per  have  of  late  years  been  fitly  commemorated  in  the  careful  and 
beautiful  editions  of  all  his  works  by  Dr.  Southey,  the  Rev.  T.  Grim- 
shawe,  and  the  Rev.  Thomas  Dale. 

THE     REPENTANT     SINNER. 

IF  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain, 
If  ever,  when  he  sighed,  hast  sighed  again, 
If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  the  tear 
That  pity  had  engendered,  drop  one  here. 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  291 


This  man  was  happy — had  the  world's  good  word, 

And  with  it  every  joy  it  can  afford  ; 

Friendship  and  love  seemed  tenderly  at  strife, 

Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life  ; 

Politely  learned,  and  of  a  gentle  race, 

Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace, 

And  whether  at  the  toilet  of  the  fair 

He  laughed  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there ; 

Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shared, 

Ensured  him  mute  attention,  and  regard. 

Alas,  how  changed  !  expressive  of  his  mind, 

His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclined  ; 

Those  awful  syllables,  hell,  death,  and  sin, 

Though  whispered,  plainly  tell  what  works  within  ; 

That  conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 

And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart. 

Forsaking  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 

He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends  ; 

Hard  task  !  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 

And  harder  still,  as  learned  beneath  despair ; 

His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmarked  away, 

A  dark  importance  saddens  eveiy  day  ; 

He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplexed, 

And  cries,  "  Perhaps  eternity  strikes  next." 

Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 

And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  car ; 

His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  power  disarms, 

Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms ; 

God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 

Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 

Seems  as  it  is,  the  fountain,  whence  alone 

Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own. 

Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad  ; 

Say  man's  a  worm,  and  power  belongs  to  God. 

As  when  a  felon,  whom  his  country's  laws 

Have  justly  doomed  for  some  atrocious  cause, 

Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears 

The  shameful  close  of  all  his  misspent  years, 


292  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 

A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreadful  morn, 

Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightnings  play, 

The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away, 

The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies, 

Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies  : 

If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 

When  hope,  long  lingering,  at  last  yields  the  ghost, 

The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 

He  drops  at  once  his  fetters,  and  his  fear : 

A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 

And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 

Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 

The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 

Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul 

Of  him  whom  hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole. 

'Tis  heaven,  all  heaven,  descending  on  the  wings 

Of  the  glad  regions  of  the  King  of  kings  ; 

'Tis  more : — 'tis  God  diffused  through  every  part, 

'Tis  God  Himself  triumphant  in  his  heart ; 

Oh  !  welcome  now,  the  sun's  once  hated  light, 

His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright  1 

Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  called  to  employ 

Their  hours,  their  days,  in  listening  to  his  joy  ; 

Unconscious  nature  !  all  that  he  surveys, 

Rocks,  groves,  and  streams,  must  join  him  in  his  praise. 

THE     MILLEN  N I U  M . 

THE  groans  of  nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end ; 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets'  lamp, 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  Sabbath  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well-nigh 
Fulfilled  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  293 


Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest : 
For  He  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  moved  Him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy  ;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  his  chanot  paved  with  love ; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 
Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wronged  by  a  mere  mortal  touch : 
]S"or  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  flowers, 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels 
To  give  it  praise  proportioned  to  its  worth, 
That  not  to  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labor,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

Oh  !  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplished  bliss,  which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refreshed  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  passed.     The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repealed. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring, 
The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks ;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 
25* 


294  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 

Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 

Lurks  in  the  serpent  now ;  the  mother  sees, 

And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 

Stretched  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 

To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 

The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 

All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 

One  Lord,  one  Father.     Error  has  no  place  ; 

That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away  ; 

The  breath  of  heaven  has  chased  it.     In  the  heart 

No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 

But  all  is  harmony  and  love.     Disease 

Is  not :  the  pure  and  uncontaminated  blood 

Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 

One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 

"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  He  was  slain  for  us !" 

The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 

Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 

From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy  ; 

Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 

Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 

Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  filled  ; 

See  Salem  built,  the  labor  of  a  God  ! 

Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines  ; 

All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 

Flock  to  that  light !  the  glory  of  all  lands 

Flows  into  her  ;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 

And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there, 

Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  ; 

The  looms  of  Ormuz,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 

And  Saba's  spicy  groves,  pay  tribute  there. 

Praise  is  in  all  her  gates  :  upon  her  walls, 

And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 

Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there 

Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  furthest  west, 

And  Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand, 

And  worships.     Her  report  has  travelled  forth 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  295 


Into  all  lands.     From  every  clime  they  come 

To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 

0  Sion  !  an  assembly  such  as  earth 

Saw  never,  such  as  heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heavenward  all  things  tend.     For  all  were  once 

Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restored ; 

So  God  as  greatly  purposed  !  who  wouJd  else 

In  his  dishonored  works  Himself  endure 

Dishonor,  and  be  wronged  without  redress. 

Haste  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shattered  world, 

Ye  slow  revolving  seasons  !     We  would  see 

(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 

A  world  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 

And  suffer  for  its  crime ;  would  learn  how  fair 

The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good  ; 

How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  Him. 

Here  every  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  ; 

Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flowers, 

And  e'en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 

Derives  from  heaven,  pure  as  the  fountain  is, 

Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  taint 

From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure. 

Oh  !  for  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 

As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  !  over  which 

Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 

That  govern  all  things  here,  shouldering  aside 

The  meek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her 

To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  strife 

In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men ; 

Where  violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 

Nor  cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong, 

Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears  ; 

Where  he  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 

Th'  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 

More  than  the  perquisite  :  where  law  shall  speak 

Seldom,  and  never  but  as  wisdom  prompts, 

And  equity  ;  not  jealous  more  to  guard 

A  worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright : 


296  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


Where  fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 

Nor  smooth  good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 

With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  love. 

ACaUAINT     THYSELF     WITH     GOD. 

ACQUAINT  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 

His  works.     Admitted  once  to  )iis  embrace, 

Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before ; 

Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed ;  and  thine  heart, 

Made  pure,  shall  relish,  with  divine  delight 

Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 

Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone, 

And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 

It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 

Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 

Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 

From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 

Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;  but  rests  content 

With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise, 

But  not  its  Author.     Unconcerned  who  formed 

The  paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 

And,  such  well-pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 

Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touched  from  heaven, 

And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 

To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 

Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his 

Much  more,  who  fashioned  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 

Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 

To  earth's  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  Him  or  receives  sublimed 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'  employ 

More  worthily  the  powers  she  owned  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlooked ; 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light  gilding  all  forms 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  297 


Terrestrial,  in  the  vast  and  the  minute ; 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God, 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  heaven,  she  often  holds 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference.     Inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth, 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy.     "  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems,  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reached  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favored  as  ours,  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doomed  to  rise, 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours  ? 

As  one  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleached  and  battered  rocks 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land ; 

So  I,  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordained  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infused  from  heaven,  must  thither  tend." 

THE     HAPPY     MAN. 

HE  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  e'en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come , 


298  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


Who,  doomed  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 

Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 

Would  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace,  the  fruit 

Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 

Prepare  for  happiness  ;  bespeak  him  one 

Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 

Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 

The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search 

Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view  ; 

And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 

Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 

She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 

He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 

He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer-birds, 

Pursuing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 

Her  honors,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 

Whose  power  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 

She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen, 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  revealed. 

Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed, 

And  censured  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 

Oft  water  fairest  meadows  ;  and  the  bird 

That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  raised, 

Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 

He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer,  None. 

His  warfare  is  within.     There  unfatigued 

His  fervent  spirit  labors.     There  he  fights, 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself, 

And  never-withering  wreaths,  compared  with  which 

The  laurels  that  a  Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 

Perhaps  the  self-approving,  haughty  world, 

That,  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks, 

Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see, 

Deems  him  a  cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 

Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owes 


WILLIAM    COVVPER.  299 


Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 

And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes, 

When,  Isaac  like,  the  solitary  saint 

Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  thinks  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herself ; 

Forgive  him  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 

Of  little  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best, 

If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good, 

He  seeks  his  proper  happiness  by  means 

That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thine. 

Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 

Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease, 

Account  him  an  incumbrance  on  the  state, 

Receiving  benefits  and  rendering  none. 

His  sphere  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 

Shine  with  his  fair  example,  and  though  small 

His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 

In  soothing  sorrow  and  in  quenching  strife, 

In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works 

From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  wo ; 

Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 

He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 

The  state,  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 

He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life 

Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted  place. 

The  man  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 

Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  public  praise  ; 

But  he  may  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can, 

That,  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill, 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 

Polite  refinement  offers  him  in  vain 

Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  world 

Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well ; 

The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  the  offence. 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode, 

Because  that  world  adopts  it.     If  it  bear 

The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense, 


300  WILLIAM    COWPER. 


And  be  not  costly,  more  than  of  true  worth, 
He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake 
Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 
She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye, 
He  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 
Not  soon  deceived  ;  aware  that  what  is  base 
No  polish  can  make  sterling  ;  and  that  vice, 
Though  well  perfumed  and  elegantly  dressed, 
Like  an  unburied  carcass  tricked  with  flowers, 
Is  but  a  garnished  nuisance,  fitter  far 
For  clennly  riddance  than  for  fair  attire. 
So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 
More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 
Renowned  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vexed  with  care, 
Or  stained  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 
Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 
So  glide  my  life  away !  and  so  at  last, 
My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfilled, 
May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 
Its  destined  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 
Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat, 
Beneath  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod. 


HOPE. 

HOPE  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all, 

That  men  have  deemed  substantial  since  the  fall, 

Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe 

From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use  ; 

And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand, 

What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 

From  fading  good  derives,  with  chemic  art, 

That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart. 

Hope,  with  uplifted  foot,  set  free  from  earth, 

Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 

On  steady  wings  sails  through  th'  immense  abyss, 

Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bowers  of  bliss, 


WILLIAM    COW  PEE.  301 


And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here, 
With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 
Hope,  as  an  anchor  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 
The  Christian  vessel,  and  defies  the  blast. 
Hope  !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 
His  newborn  virtues  and  preserve  him  pure. 
Hope  !  let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joy, 
Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 
Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 
What  treasures  centre,  what  delights,  in  thee. 
Had  he  the  gems,  the  sjSces,  and  the  land 
That  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command  ; 
The  fragrant  grove,  th'  inestimable  mine, 
Were  light,  when  viewed  against  one  smile  of  thine. 

ON     A     BILL    OF     MORTALITY. 

CotLD  I,  from  heaven  inspired,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 

As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page, 

And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past ! 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful  sheet, 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die ; 

And,  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 

With  anxious  meaning,  heavenward  turn  his  eye ! 

Tune  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now ; 

And  prayer  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  music-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler,  on  the  brink 

Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 

Forced  to  a  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 
Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 

Ah !  self- deceived !     Could  I  prophetic  say 
Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 

The  rest  might  then  seem  privileged  to  play, 

But,  naming  none,  the  voice  now  speaks  to  All. 


302  WILLIAM    COWPEK. 


Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 

They  bound  and  airy  o'er  the  sunny  glade — 

One  falls — the  rest,  wide  scattered  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warned, 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 

A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorned, 

Die  self-accused  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste  !  for  which  no  after  thrift  atones  : 
The  grave  admits  no*cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 

Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones, 
But  tears  of  godly  grief  ne'er  flow  within. 

Learn  then,  ye  living  !  by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  instructors  true, 

That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot, 

And  the  next  opening  grave  may  yawn  for  you, 

RELIGION    NOT    ADVERSE    TO    PLEASURE. 

RELIGION  does  not  censure  or  exclude 

Unnumbered  pleasures  harmlessly  pursued ; 

To  study,  culture,  and  with  artful  toil 

To  meliorate  and  tame  the  stubborn  soil ; 

To  give  dissimilar  yet  fruitful  lands 

The  grain,  or  herb,  or  plant,  that  each  demands  ; 

To  cherish  virtue  in  an  humble  state, 

And  share  the  joys  your  bounty  may  create ; 

To  mark  the  matchless  workings  of  the  power 

That  shuts  within  its  seed  the  future  flower ; 

Bids  these  in  elegance  of  form  excel, 

In  color  these,  and  those  delight  the  smell ; 

Sends  nature  forth,  the  daughter  of  the  skies, 

To  dance  on  earth,  and  charm  all  human  eyes  ; 

To  teach  the  canvass  innocent  deceit, 

Or  lay  the  landscape  on  the  snowy  sheet — 

These,  these  are  arts  pursued  without  a  crime, 

That  leave  no  stain  upon  the  wing  of  time. 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  303 


THE    ENCHANTMENT    DISSOLVED. 

BLINDED  in  youth  by  Satan's  arts, 
The  world  to  our  unpractised  hearts 

A  flattering  prospect  shows  ; 
Our  fancy  forms  a  thousand  schemes 
Of  gay  delights,  and  golden  dreams, 

And  undisturbed  repose. 

So  in  the  desert's  dreary  waste, 
By  magic  power  produced  in  haste, 

(As  ancient  fables  say,) 
Castles,  and  groves,  and  music  sweet, 
The  senses  of  the  traveller  meet, 

And  stop  him  in  his  way. 

But  while  he  listens  with  surprise, 
The  charm  dissolves,  the  vision  dies  ; 

'Twas  but  enchanted  ground  : 
Thus  if  the  Lord  our  spirits  touch, 
The  world,  which  promised  us  so  much, 

A  wilderness  is  found. 

At  first  we  start,  and  feel  distressed, 
Convinced  we  never  can  have  rest 

In  such  a  wretched  place  ; 
But  He  whose  mercy  breaks  the  charm, 
Reveals  his  own  Almighty  arm, 

And  bids  us  seek  his  face. 

Then  we  begin  to  live  indeed, 

When  from  our  sin  and  bondage  freed 

By  this  beloved  Friend  : 
We  follow  Him  from  day  to  day, 
Assured  of  grace  through  all  the  way, 

And  glory  at  the  end. 


304  WILLIAM    COWPER, 


RETIREMENT. 

FAR  from  the  world,  0  Lord,  I  flee, 
From  strife  and  tumult  far  ; 

From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 
His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade,  . 

With  prayer  and  praise  agree  ; 
And  seem  by  thy  sweet  bounty  made 

For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

There,  if  thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul, 
And  grace  her  mean  abode, 

Oh !  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
She  communes  with  her  God. 

There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays ; 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  Guardian  of  my  life, 
Sweet  source  of  light  divine, 

And  (all  harmonious  names  in  one,) 
My  Saviour,  Thou  art  mine ! 

What  thanks  I  owe  Thee,  and  what  love, 
A  boundless,  endless  store, 

Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above, 
When  time  shall  be  no  more. 


JOHN    LOGAN.  305 


JOHN  LOGAN. 

JOHN  LOGAN  was  born  at  Soutra,  in  Mid  Lothian,  in  1748.  He  was 
bred  to  the  Scottish  Church,  and  became  one  of  the  ministers  of  Leith. 
Disagreeing,  however,  with  his  congregation,  he  came  to  London,  and 
supported  himself  by  his  pen.  He  died  there  in  December,  1788. 
Logan  contributed  many  of  the  finest  paraphrases  to  the  Collection 
used  in  the  Scottish  Church.  His  poetry  discovers  great  taste,  and 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  a  fervent  imagination,  and  is  written  with 
much  elegance. 

THE     COMPLAINT     OF     NATURE. 
JOB  XIV. 

FEW  are  thy  days  and  full  of  wo, 

0  man,  of  woman  born  ! 
Thy  doom  is  written,  "  Dust  thou  art, 

And  shalt  to  dust  return." 

Determined  are  the  days  that  fly 

Successive  o'er  thy  head; 
The  numbered  hour  is  on  the  wing, 

That  lays  thee  with  the  dead. 

Alas  !  the  little  day  of  life 

Is  shorter  than  a  span  ; 
Yet  black  with  thousand  hidden  ills 

To  miserable  man. 

Gay  is  thy  morning  ;  flattering  hope 

Thy  sprightly  step  attends  ; 
But  soon  the  tempest  howls  behind, 

And  the  dark  night  descends. 

Before  its  splendid  hour  the  cloud 

Comes  o'er  the  beam  of  light ; 
A  pilgrim  in  a  weary  land, 

Man  tarries  but  a  night. 
26* 


306  JOHN    LOGAN. 


Behold  !  sad  emblems  of  thy  state, 
The  flowers  that  paint  the  field  ; 

Or  trees  that  crown  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  boughs  and  blossoms  yield. 

When  chill  the  blast  of  winter  blows, 

Away  the  summer  flies  ; 
The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes, 

And  all  their  beauty  dies. 

Nipped  by  the  year,  the  forest  fades ; 

And,  shaking  to  the  wind. 
The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 

The  wilderness  behind. 

The  winter  past,  reviving  flowers 
Anew  shall  paint  the  plain  : 

The  woods  shall  hear  the  voice  of  spring, 
And  flourish  green  again  : 

But  man  departs  this  earthly  scene, 

Ah !  never  to  return ; 
No  second  spring  shall  e'er  revive 

The  ashes  of  the  urn. 

The  inexorable  gates  of  death, 
What  hand  can  e'er  unfold  ? 

Who  from  the  cerements  of  the  tomb 
Can  raise  the  human  mould  ? 

The  mighty  flood  that  rolls  along 

Its  torrents  to  the  main, 
The  waters  lost,  can  ne'er  recall 

From  that  abyss  again. 

The  days,  the  years,  the  ages,  dark 
Descending  down  to  night, 

Can  never,  never  be  redeemed 
Back  to  the  gates  of  light. 


JOHN    LOGAN.  307 


"  So  man  departs  the  living  scene 
To  night's  perpetual  gloom  ; 

The  Toice  of  morning  ne'er  shall  break 
The  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

"  Where  are  our  fathers  ?  whither  gone 

The  mighty  men  of  old  ? 
The  patriarchs,  prophets,  priests,  and  kings, 

In  sacred  books  enrolled  ? 

"  Gone  to  the  resting-place  of  man, 

The  everlasting  home, 
Where  ages  past  have  gone  before, 

Where  future  ages  come." 

Thus  Nature  poured  the  wail  of  wo, 
And  urged  her  earnest  cry  ; 

Her  voice  in  agony  extreme 
Ascended  to  the  sky. 

The  Almighty  heard :  then  from  his  throne 

In  majesty  He  rose  ; 
And  from  the  heaven  that  opened  wide, 

His  voice  hi  mercy  flows  : 

"  When  mortal  man  resigns  his  breath, 

And  falls  a  clod  of  clay, 
The  soul,  immortal,  wings  its  flight 

To  never-  setting  day. 

"  Prepared  of  old  for  wicked  men, 

The  bed  of  torment  lies  ; 
The  just  shall  enter  into  bliss, 

Immortal  in  the  skies." 


308  JOHN'   LOGAN. 


THE     PRAYER     OF     JACOB. 

0  GOD  of  Bethel !  by  whose  hand 

Thy  people  still  are  fed  ; 
Who  through  this  weary  pilgrimage, 

Hast  all  our  fathers  led  ; 

Our  vows,  our  prayers,  we  now  present 
Before  thy  throne  of  grace  : 

God  of  our  fathers,  be  the  God 
Of  their  succeeding  race. 

Through  each  perplexing  path  of  life 
Our  wandering  footsteps  guide  ; 

Give  us  each  day  our  daily  bread, 
And  raiment  fit  provide. 

Oh  !  spread  thy  covering  wings  around 
Till  all  our  wanderings  cease, 

And  at  our  father's  loved  abode, 
Our  souls  arrive  in  peace  ! 

Such  blessings  from  thy  gracious  hand 
Our  humble  prayers  implore  ; 

And  Thou  shalt  be  our  chosen  God, 
And  portion  evermore. 


NATHANIEL    COTTON.  309 


NATHANIEL  COTTON 

WAS  a  physician  at  St.  Alban's,  where  he  acquired  great  reputation  in 
his  profession,  and  died  in  1798.  The  poetical  compositions  of  Cotton 
are  distinguished  by  a  refined  elegance  of  sentiment,  and  simplicity  ol 
expression.  He  writes  flowingly,  and  sometimes  with  elevation  and 
spirit.  His  thoughts  are  always  just,  and  religiously  pure. 

LIFE. 

LET  not  the  young  my  precepts  shun  : 

Who  slight  good  counsels  are  undone. 

Your  poet  sung  of  love's  delights, 

Of  halcyon  days  and  joyous  nights  ; 

To  the  gay  fancy  lovely  themes  ; 

And  fain  I'd  hope  they're  more  than  dreams. 

But,  if  you  please,  before  we  part, 

I'd  speak  a  language  to  your  heart. 

We'll  talk  of  Life,  though  much  I  fear 

Th'  ungrateful  tale  would  wound  your  ear. 

You  raise  your  sanguine  thoughts  too  high, 

And  hardly  know  the  reason  why : 

But  say,  life's  tree  bears  golden  fruit, 

Some  canker  shall  corrode  the  root ; 

Some  unexpected  storm  shall  rise, 

Or  scorching  suns,  or  chilling  skies ; 

And  (if  experienced  truths  prevail) 

All  your  autumnal  hopes  shall  fail. 

"  But,  poet,  whence  such  wide  extremes  ? 

Well  may  you  style  your  labors  dreams. 

A  son  of  sorrow  thou,  I  ween, 

Whose  visions  are  the  brats  of  spleen. 

Is  bliss  a  vague  unmeaning  name  ? 

Speak  then  the  passions'  use  or  aim  ? 

Why  rage  desires  without  control, 

And  rouse  such  whirlwinds  in  the  soul  ? 


310  NATHANIEL    COTTON. 

Why  hope  erects  her  towering  crest, 
And  laughs  and  riots  in  the  breast  ? 
Think  not  my  weaker  brain  turns  round  ; 
Think  not  I  tread  on  fairy  ground ; 
Think  not  your  pulse  alone  beats  true, — 
Mine  makes  as  healthful  music  too. 
Our  joys,  when  life's  soft  spring  we  trace, 
Put  forth  their  early  buds  apace  : 
See,  the  bloom  loads  the  tender  shoot ; 
The  bloom  conceals  the  future  fruit. 
Yes,  manhood's  warm  meridian  sun 
Shall  ripen  what  in  spring  begun. 
Thus  infant  roses,  ere  they  blow, 
In  germinating  clusters  grow  ; 
And  only  wait  the  summer's  ray, 
To  burst  and  blossom  to  the  day." 
What  said  the  gay  unthinking  boy  ? 
Methought  Hilario  talked  of  joy  ! 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  whence  joys  arise, 
Or  what  those  mighty  joys  you  prize. 
You'll  find  (and  trust  superior  years) 
The  vale  of  life  a  vale  of  tears. 
Gould  wisdom  teach  where  joys  abound, 
Or  riches  purchase  them  when  found, 
Would  sceptred  Solomon  complain 
That  all  was  fleeting,  false,  and  vain  ? 
Yet  sceptred  Solomon  could  say, 
Returning  clouds  obscured  his  day. 
Those  maxims  which  the  preacher  drew, 
The  royal  sage  experienced  true. 
He  knew  the  various  ills  that  wait 
Our  infant  and  meridian  state  ; 
That  toys  our  earlier  thoughts  engage, 
And  different  toys  maturer  age  ; 
That  grief  at  every  stage  appears, 
But  different  griefs  at  different  years; 
That  vanity  is  seen,  in  part, 
Inscribed  on  every  human  heart ; 


NATHANIEL    COTTON.  311 

f- 

In  the  child's  breast  the  spark  began, 

Grows  with  his  growth,  and  glares  in  man. 

But  when  in  life  we  journey  late, 

If  follies  die,  do  griefs  abate  ? 

Ah !  what  is  life  at  fourscore  years  ? 

One  dark  rough  road  of  sighs,  groans,  pains,  and  tears. 

Perhaps  you'll  think  I  act  the  same 
As  a  sly  sharper  plays  his  game : 
You  triumph  every  deal  that's  past, 
He's  sure  to  triumph  at  the  last ! 
Who  often  wins  some  thousands  more 
Than  twice  the  sums  you  won  before. 
But  I'm  a  loser  with  the  rest, 
For  life  is  all  a  deal  at  best, 
Where  not  the  prize  of  wealth  or  fame 
Repays  the  trouble  of  the  game ; 
(A  truth  no  winner  e'er  denied 
An  hour  before  that  winner  died ;) 
Nor  that  with  me  these  prizes  shine, 
For  neither  fame  nor  wealth  is  mine. 
My  cards  a  weak  plebeian  band, 
With  scarce  an  honor  in  my  hand ! 
And,  since  my  trumps  are  very  few, 
What  have  I  more  to  boast  than  you  ? 
Nor  am  I  gainer  by  your  fall, 
That  harlot,  Fortune,  bubbles  all ! 
'Tis  truth,  (receive  it  ill  or  well,) 
'Tis  melancholy  truth,  I  tell. 
Why  should  the  preacher  take  your  pence, 
And  smother  truth  to  flatter  sense  ? 
I'm  sure  physicians  have  no  merit, 
Who  kill  through  lenity  of  spirit ! 
That  life's  a  game,  divines  confess ; 
This  says  at  cards,  and  that  at  chess : 
But  if  our  views  be  centred  here, 
'Tis  all  a  losing  game,  I  fear. 

Sailors,  you  know,  when  wars  obtain, 
And  hostile  vessels  crowd  the  main, 


312  NATHANIEL    COTTON. 

If  they  discover  from  afar 
A  bark  as  distant  as  a  star, 
Hold  the  perspective  to  their  eyes, 
To  learn  its  colors,  strength,  and  size ; 
And  when  this  secret  once  they  know, 
Make  ready  to  receive  the  foe ; 
Let  you  and  I  from  sailors  learn 
Important  truths  of  like  concern. 

I  closed  the  day  as  custom  led. 
With  reading  till  the  time  of  bed  ; 
Where  Fancy,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Again  displayed  her  magic  power ; 
(For  know  that  Fancy,  like  a  sprite, 
Prefers  the  silent  scenes  of  night,) 
She  lodged  me  in  a  neighboring  wood, 
No  matter  where  the  thicket  stood ; 
The  Genius  of  the  place  was  nigh, 
And  held  two  pictures  to  my  eye ; 
The  curious  painter  had  portrayed 
Life  in  each  just  and  genuine  shade. 
They  who  have  only  known  its  dawn 
May  think  these  lines  too  deeply  drawn ; 
But  riper  years,  I  fear,  will  show 
The  wiser  artist  paints  too  true. 
One  piece  presents  a  rueful  wild, 
Where  not  a  summer's  sun  had  smiled  ; 
The  road  with  thorns  is  covered  wide, 
And  Grief  sits  weeping  by  the  side  ; 
Here  tears  with  constant  tenor  flow, 
And  form  a  mournful  lake  below ; 
Whose  silent  waters,  dark  and  deep, 
Through  all  the  gloomy  valley  creep. 
Passions  that  flatter,  or  that  slay, 
Are  beasts  that  fawn,  or  birds  that  prey. 
Here  Vice  assumes  the  serpent's  shape ; 
There  Folly  personates  the  ape : 
Here  Avarice  gripes  with  harpy  claws ; 
There  Malice  grins  with  tiger's  jaws ; 


NATHANIEL    COTTON.  313 


While  sons  of  Mischief,  Art,  and  Guile, 
Are  alligators  of  the  Nile. 

E'en  Pleasure  acts  a  treacherous  part , 
She  charms  the  sense,  but  stings  the  heart ; 
And  when  she  gulls  us  of  our  wealth, 
Or  that  superior  pearl,  our  health, 
Restores  us  naught  but  pains  and  wo, 
And  drowns  us  in  the  lake  below. 

There  a  commissioned  angel  stands 
With  desolation  in  his  hands  ; 
He  sends  the  all-devouring  flame, 
And  cities  hardly  boast  a  name : 
Or  wings  the  pestilential  blast, 
And  lo !  ten  thousand  breathe  their  last. 
He  speaks — obedient  tempests  roar, 
And  guilty  nations  are  no  more  : 
He  speaks — the  Fury  discord  raves, 
And  sweeps  whole  armies  to  the  graves ; 
Or  Famine  lifts  her  mildewed  hand, 
And  Hunger  howls  through  all  the  land. 
"  Oh  !  what  a  wretch  is  man  !"  I  cried  ; 
"  Exposed  to  death  on  every  side ! 
And  sure  as  born  to  be  undone, 
By  evils  which  he  cannot  shun ! 
Besides  a  thousand  baits  to  sin, 
A  thousand  traitors  lodge  within ! 
For,  soon  as  vice  assaults  the  heart, 
The  rebels  take  the  demon's  part." 

I  sigh,  my  aching  bosom  bleeds  ; 
When  straight  the  milder  plan  succeeds. 
The  lake  of  tears,  the  dreary  shore, 
The  same  as  in  the  piece  before  ; 
But  gleams  of  light  are  here  displayed 
To  cheer  the  eye,  and  gild  the  shade ; 
Affliction  speaks  a  softer  style, 
And  Disappointment  wears  a  smile  : 
A  group  of  virtues  blossom  near  ; 
Their  roots  improve  by  every  tear. 
27 


314  JAMES    GRAHAME. 


Here  Patience,  gentle  maid  !  is  nigh, 
To  calm  the  storm  and  wipe  the  eye  ; 
Hope  acts  the  kind  physician's  part, 
And  warms  the  solitary  heart : 
Religion  nobler  comfort  brings, 
Disarms  our  griefs,  or  blunts  their  stings ; 
Points  out  the  balance  on  the  whole, 
And  heaven  rewards  the  struggling  soul. 
But  while  these  raptures  I  pursue, 
The  Genius  suddenly  withdrew 


JAMES  GRAHAME. 

JAMES  GRAHAME,  author  of  «  The  Sabbath,"  "  The  Birds  of  Scot- 
land," "  British  Georgics,"  &c.,  was  born  at  Glasgow,  in  1765.  He 
received  a  good  education,  and  was  by  his  friends  articled  to  a  lawyer ; 
but  his  own  desire  was  to  enter  the  ministry.  Accordingly,  after  a  few 
years  spent  without  profit  in  his  uncongenial  profession,  he  sought  and 
obtained  orders  of  the  Bishop  of  Norwich.  He  did  not  obtain  a  living, 
but  officiated  as  a  curate,  first  at  Shipton,  in  Gloucestershire ;  next  at 
St.  Margaret's,  in  Durham  ;  and  last  at  Sedgefield  ;  performing  all  the 
duties  of  his  office  with  Christian  fidelity.  He  died  in  1811.  All  the 
productions  of  Grahame  display  an  amiability  of  mind  rarely  equalled, 
and  never  surpassed.  The  great  charm  of  his  poetry  is  manly  simpli- 
city, and  unaffected  piety.  His  touches  of  rural  scenery  and  modes  of 
life  are  graphic  in  the  highest  degree.  His  nephew,  the  late  James 
Grahame,  is  well  known  as  the  historian  of  the  United  States. 


THE     FIRST     SABBATH. 

Six  days  the  heavenly  host,  in  circle  vast 
Like  that  untouching  cincture  which  enzones 
The  globe  of  Saturn,  compassed  wide  this  orb, 
And  with  the  forming  mass  floated  along 
In  rapid  course,  through  yet  untravelled  space, 


JAMES    GRAHAME.  315 


Beholding  God's  stupendous  power, — a  world 

Bursting  from  Chaos  at  the  omnific  will, 

And  perfect  ere  the  sixth  day's  evening  star 

On  Paradise  arose.     Blessed  that  eve  ! 

The  Sabbath's  harbinger,  when,  all  complete 

In  freshest  beauty  from  Jehovah's  hand, 

Creation  bloomed  ;  when  Eden's  twilight  face 

Smiled  like  a  sleeping  babe  :  the  voice  divine 

A  holy  calm  breathed  o'er  the  goodly  work : 

Mildly  the  sun  upon  the  loftiest  tree 

Shed  mellowly  a  sloping  beam.     Peace  reigned, 

And  love,  and  gratitude  ;  the  human  pair 

Their  orisons  poured  forth  ;  love,  concord  reigned. 

The  falcon  perched  upon  the  blooming  bough 

With  Philomela,  listened  to  her  lay  ; 

Among  the  antlered  herd  the  tiger  couched 

Harmless  ;  the  lion's  mane  no  terror  spread 

Among  the  careless,  ruminating  flock. 

Silence  was  o'er  the  deep  ;  the  noiseless  surge, 

The  last  subsiding  wave — of  that  dread  tumult 

Which  raged  when  ocean  at  the  mute  command 

Rushed  furiously  into  his  new-cleft  bed, — 

Was  gently  rippling  on  the  pebbled  shore  ; 

While  on  the  swell  the  sea-bird,  with  her  head 

Wing- veiled,  slept  tranquilly.     The  host  of  heaven, 

Entranced  in  new  delight,  speechless  adored  ; 

Nor  stopped  their  fleet  career,  nor  changed  their  form 

Encircular  till  on  that  hemisphere, — 

In  which  the  blissful  garden  sweet  exhaled 

Its  incense,  odorous  clouds, — the  Sabbath  dawn 

Arose ;  then  wide  the  flying  circle  sped, 

And  soared  in  semblance  of  a  mighty  rainbow. 

Silent  ascend  the  choirs  of  seraphim, 

No  harp  resounds,  mute  each  voice  is  :  the  burst 

Of  joy  and  praise  reluctant  they  repress, — 

For  love  and  concord  all  things  so  attuned 

To  harmony,  that  earth  must  have  received 

The  grand  vibration,  and  to  the  centre  shook : 


316  JAMES    GRAHAME. 


But  soon  as  to  the  starry  altitudes 

They  reached,  then  what  a  storm  of  sound  tremendous 

Swelled  through  the  realms  of  space.    The  morning  stars 

Together  sang,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy  !     Loud  was  the  peal ;  so  loud 

As  would  have  quite  o'erwhelmed  human  sense : 

But  to  the  earth  it  came  a  gentle  strain, 

Like  softest  fall  breathed  from  ^Eolian  lute, 

When  'mid  the  chords  the  evening  gale  expires. 

"  Day  of  the  Lord  !  creation's  hallowed  close  ! 

Day  of  the  Lord  !  (prophetical  they  sung) 

Benignant  mitigation  of  that  doom 

Which  must  ere  long  consign  the  fallen  race, 

Dwellers  in  yonder  star,  to  toil  and  wo." 


THE  SABBATH  AS  A  DAY  OF  REST. 

BUT  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  , 

On  other  days  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 

To  eat  his  joyless  bread  lonely  ;  the  ground 

Both  seat  and  board  ;  screened  from  the  winter's  cold 

And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree  : 

But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves  ; 

With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 

A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently 

With  covered  face,  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  ; 

The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 

The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke, 

While  wandering  slowly  up  the  river's  side, 

He  meditates  on  Him  whose  power  he  marks 

In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 

As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 

Around  its  roots  ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys 


JAMES    GRAHAME.  317 


With  elevated  joy  each  rural  charm, 

He  hopes,  yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, 

That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 


A    SPRING     SABBATH     WALK. 

MOST  earnest  was  his  voice !  most  mild  his  look, 

As  with  raised  hands  he  blessed  his  parting  flock. 

He  is  a  faithful  pastor  of  the  poor ; —     . 

He  thinks  not  of  himself;  his  Master's  words, 

"  Feed,  feed  my  sheep,"  are  ever  at  his  heart, 

The  cross  of  Christ  is  aye  before  his  eyes. 

Oh  !  how  I  love  with  melted  soul  to  leave 

The  house  of  prayer,  and  wander  in  the  fields 

Alone !    What  though  the  opening  spring  be  chill ! 

Although  the  lark,  checked  in  his  airy  path, 

Eke  out  his  song,  perched  on  the  fallow  clod 

That  still  o'ertops  the  blade !  although  no  branch 

Have  spread  its  foliage,  save  the  willow  wand 

That  dips  its  pale  leaves  in  the  swollen  stream ; 

What  though  the  clouds  oft  lower  !  their  threats  but  end 

In  summer-showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 

Of  moss-couched  violets,  or  interrupt 

The  merle's  dulcet  pipe, — melodious  bird  ! 

He,  hid  behind  the  milkwhite  sloe-thorn  spray, 

(Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf,) 

Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook  to  which  my  steps 

Have  brought  me,  hardly  conscious  where  I  roamed, 

Unheeding  where, — so  lovely  all  around 

The  works  of  God  arrayed  in  vernal  smile. 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing,  I  prolong 
My  devious  range,  till  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 
Emblaze,  with  upward  slanting  ray,  the  breast 
And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark 
Descending,  vocal,  from  her  latest  flight ; 
While  disregardful  of  yon  lowly  star, 
27* 


318 


JAMES    GRAHAME. 


The  harbinger  of  chill  night's  glittering  host,- 
Sweet  redbreast,  Scotia's  Philomela,  chants 
In  desultory  strains  his  evening  hymn. 

A     SUMMER      SABBATH      WALK 

DELIGHTFUL  is  this  loneliness  !  it  calms 

My  heart :  pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms 

That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade ! 

Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks ; 

How  peaceful  every  sound ! — the  ringdove's  plaint, 

Moaned  from  the  twilight  centre  of  the  grove, 

While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 

Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-eaved  nest. 

And  from  the  root-sprig  trills  her  ditty  clear, — 

The  grasshopper's  oft-pausing  chirp, — the  buzz 

Angrily  shrill  of  moss-entangled  bee, 

That  soon  as  loosed  booms  with  full  twang  away, — 

The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow-shoal, 

Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread, 

Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 

A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 

The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 

Watches  his  time  to  spring ;  or,  from  above 

Some  feathered  dam,  purveying  midst  the  boughs, 

Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 

Bears  off  the  prize  : — sad  emblem  of  man's  lot ! 

He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf, 

(Where  safe  and  happily  he  might  have  lurked,) 

Elate  upon  ambition's  gaudy  wings, 

Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and,  worse, 

Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream, 

And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  'scape, 

Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a  little  while, 

Mistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky 

For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 

Now  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source, 

Among  the  hills  ;  its  runnel  by  degrees 


JAMES    GRAHAME.  319 


Diminishing,  the  murmur  runs  a  trickle  : 

Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 

Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble-shoots, 

With  brier  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray, 

That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I  mount 

Into  the  open  air  ;  grateful  the  breeze 

That  fans  my  throbbing  temples  !  smiles  the  plain 

Spread  wide  below  ;  how  sweet  the  placid  view  ! 

But  oh !  more  sweet  the  thought,  heart- soothing  thought ! 

That  thousands,  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 

Of  toil,  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 

Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale, 

Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 

And  blessing  Him  who  gave  the  Sabbath-day. 

Yes,  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb, 

To  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 

Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 

The  coolness  of  the  day's  decline  :  to  see 

His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 

The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon 

Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Again  I  turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 

The  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discerned ; 

Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  with  ferny  leaves, 

And  thinly  strewed  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 

Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the  glens, 

Each  mountain's  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 

Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 

The  shepherd's  shadow  thrown  across  the  chasm, 

As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 

How  deep  the  hush !  the  torrent's  channel  dry 

Presents  a  stony  steep,  the  echo's  haunt : 

But  hark,  a  plaintive  sound  floating  along  ! 

'Tis  from  yon  heath-roofed  shielin :  now  it  dies 

Away,  now  rises  full ;  it  is  the  song 

Which  He, — who  listens  to  the  halleluiahs 

Of  choiring  seraphim,— delights  to  hear : 

It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 


320  JAMES    GRAHAME. 


Of  venerable  age, — of  guileless  youth, 
In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicket  door  :  behold  the  man  ! 
The  grandsire  and  the  saint ;  his  silvery  locks 
Beam  in  the  parting  ray  ;  before  him  lies, 
Upon  the  smooth-cropped  sward,  the  open  book, 
His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever-new  delight ! 
While,  heedless,  at  his  side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 

AN    AUTUMN     SABBATH     WALK. 

WHEN  homeward  bands  their  several  ways  disperse, 

I  love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 

Of  rest ;  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tomb, 

And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 

Sad  sighs  the  wind,  that  from  those  ancient  elms 

Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  withered  grass : 

The  sere  and  yellow  wreaths  with  eddying  sweep 

Fill  up  the  furrows  'tween  the  hillocked  graves. 

But  list  that  moan  !  'tis  the  poor  blind  man's  dog, 

His  guide  for  many  a  day,  now  come  to  mourn 

The  master  and  the  friend,  conjunction  rare  ! 

A  man  he  was  indeed  of  gentle  soul, 

Though  bred  to  brave  the  deep ;  the  lightning's  flash 

Had  dimmed,  not  closed,  his  mild,  but  sightless  eyes. 

He  was  a  welcome  guest  through  all  his  range ; 

(It  was  not  wide,)  no  dog  would  bay  at  him  : 

Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way, 

And  lead  him  to  a  sunny  seat,  and  climb 

His  knees,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales ; 

Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 

The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship  ; 

And  I  have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 

Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 

Peace  to  thy  spirit !  that  now  looks  on  me 

Perhaps  with  greater  pity  than  I  felt 

To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 


JAMES    GRAHAME.  321 


But  let  me  quit  this  melancholy  spot, 

And  roam  where  nature  gives  a  parting  smile. 

As  yet  the  blue-bells  linger  on  the  sod 

That  copes  the  sheepfold  ring  ;  and  in  the  woods 

A  second  blow  of  many  flowers  appears  ; 

Flowers  faintly  tinged  and  breathing  no  perfume. 

But  fruits,  not  blossoms,  form  the  woodland  wreath 

That  circle's  autumn's  brow  :  the  ruddy  haws 

Now  clothe  the  half-leaved  thorn ;  the  bramble  bends 

Beneath  its  jetty  load  ;  the  hazel  hangs 

With  auburn  branches,  dipping  in  the  stream 

That  sweeps  along,  and  threatens  to  o'erflow 

The  leaf -strewn  banks  :  oft,  statue-like,  I  gaze 

In  vacancy  of  thought  upon  that  stream, 

And  chase  with  dreaming  eye  the  eddying  foam ; 

Or  rowan's  clustered  branch,  or  harvest-sheaf 

Borne  rapidly  adown  the  dizzying  flood. 

A      WINTER      SABBATH      WALK. 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene  ;  deep,  deep, 

The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath-day, — 

Not  even  a  footfall  heard.     Smooth  are  the  fields, 

Each  hollow  pathway  level  with  the  plain  : 

Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that  here  and  there 

Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 

High-ridged  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 

The  powdered  keystone  of  the  churchyard  porch  : 

Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell ;  the  tombs  lie  buried : 

No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer  : 

The  flickering  fall  is  o'er ;  the  clouds  disperse, 

And  show  the  sun  hung  o'er  the  welkin's  verge, 

Shooting  a  bright  but  ineffectual  beam 

On  all  the  sparkling  waste.     Now  is  the  time 

To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire ; 

Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 

A  noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 

How  beautiful  the  plain  stretched  far  below 


322  JAMES    GRAHAME. 


Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 

With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood  ! 

But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 

To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned, 

Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine, 

Among  yon  rocky  fells  that  bid  defiance 

To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold ! 

There  silence  dwells  profound  ;  or  if  the  cry 

Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  calm, 

The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep  sunk  dell : 

No  footprint,  save  the  covey's  or  the  flock's, 

Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 

Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 

Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts, 

Nor  linger  there  too  long  :  the  wintry  day 

Soon  closes,  and  full  oft  a  heavier  fall, 

Heaped  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  sheltered  glen. 

While  gurgling  deep  below  the  buried  rill 

Mines  for  itself  a  snow-coved  way.     Oh  !  then 

Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  spot, 

And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill's  stormy  side, 

Where  night- winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift  away : 

So  the  Great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  flock 
From  faithless  pleasures  full  into  the  storms 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast, 
Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 
Bedimmed  with  showers  ;  then  to  the  pastures  green 
He  brings  them  where  the  quiet  waters  glide, 
The  streams  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 


JAMES    BEVTTIE.  323 


JAMES  BEATTIE, 

THE  author  of  the  "Minstrel,"  and  other  poems,  and  of  various  works 
in  prose,  was  born  in  Laurencekirk  in  1735,  and  died  in  1803. 

THE     H  E  R  AT  1  'I' 

AT  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove : 
'Twas  then,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
A  hermit  his  song  of  the  night  thus  began, 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  while  he  felt  as  a  man. 

"  Ah !  why  thus  abandoned  to  darkness  and  wo, 
Why  thus,  lonely  Philomel,  flows  thy  sad  strain  ? 
For  spring  shall  return  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  thy  bosom  no  trace  of  misfortune  retain. 
Yet  if  pity  inspire  thee,  ah,  cease  not  thy  lay, 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn  ; 

0  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away — 
Full  quickly  they  pass,  but  they  never  return. 

"  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  moon  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  displays ; 
But  lately  I  marked,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again, 
But  man's  faded  glory  no  change  shall  renew, 
Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain ! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more : 

1  mourn,  but  ye  woodlands  I  mourn  not  for  you, 
For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance  and  glittering  with  dew. 


324  JAMES    BEATTIE. 


Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn, 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save ; 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn ! 
0  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave ! 

"  'Twas  thus  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind ; 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

'  0  pity,  great  Father  of  Light,'  then  I  cried, 

'  Thy  creature  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee  I 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride, 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free/ 

"  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away, 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn, 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death,  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb.' 


FROM  AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADY. 

AH,  whither  fled ! — ye  dear  illusions  stay  ! 
Lo !  pale  and  silent  lies  the  lovely  clay ! 
How  are  the  roses  on  that  lip  decayed, 
Which  health  in  all  the  pride  of  bloom  arrayed  ! 
Health  on  her  form  each  sprightly  grace  bestowed ; 
With  active  life  each  speaking  feature  glowed. 
Fair  was  the  flower,  and  soft  the  vernal  sky ; 
Elate  with  hope  we  deemed  no  tempest  nigh ; 
When,  lo !  a  whirlwind's  instantaneous  gust 
Left  all  its  beauties  withering  in  the  dust. 

All  cold  the  hand  that  soothed  Wo's  weary  head  ! 
All  quenched  the  eye  the  pitying  tear  that  shed ! 


JAMES    BEATTIE.  325 


All  mute  the  voice  whose  pleasing  accents  stole ; 
Infusing  balm  into  the  rankled  soul ! — 
0  Death,  why  arm  with  cruelty  thy  power, 
And  spare  the  weed,  yet  lop  the  lovely  flower  ? 
Why  fly  thy  shafts  in  lawless  error  driven ! 
Is  virtue  then  no  more  the  care  of  heaven  ? — 

But  peace,  bold  thought !  be  still,  my  bursting  heart ! 
We,  not  Eliza,  felt  the  fatal  dart. 
'Scaped  the  dark  dungeon  does  the  slave  complain, 
Nor  bless  the  hand  that  broke  the  galling  chain  ? 
Say,  pines  not  Virtue  for  the  lingering  morn, 
On  this  dark  wild  condemned  to  roam  forlorn  ? 
Where  Reason's  meteor-rays,  with  sickly  glow, 
O'er  the  dun  gloom  a  dreadful  glimmering  throw ; 
Disclosing  dubious  to  th'  affrighted  eye, 
O'erwhelming  mountains  tottering  from  on  high. 

Black  billowy  seas  hi  storms  perpetual  tossed, 
And  weary  ways  in  wildering  labyrinths  lost. 
0  happy  stroke  that  bursts  the  bonds  of  clay, 
Darts  through  the  rending  gloom  the  blaze  of  day, 
And  wings  the  soul  with  boundless  flight  to  soar 
Where  dangers  threat,  and  fears  alarm  no  more. 
28 


326  ANNE  STEELE. 


ANNE  STEELE. 

MRS.  ANNE  STEELE,  the  daughter  of  a  Baptist  clergyman  at  Brough- 
ton,  in  Hampshire,  was  distinguished  as  a  devotional  lyrist,  and  many 
of  her  hymns  are  now  in  the  collections  of  most  of  the  churches.  She 
died  in  1799,  and  soon  after  her  poems  were  collected  and  published 
in  two  volumes. 

A     MORNING     HYMN. 

LORD  of  my  life,  0  may  thy  praise 

Employ  my  noblest  powers, 
Whose  goodness  lengthens  out  my  days, 

And  fills  the  circling  hours 

Preserved  by  thy  almighty  arm, 

I  passed  the  shades  of  night, 
Serene  and  safe  from  every  harm, 

And  see  returning  light. 

While  many  spent  the  night  in  sighs, 

And  restless  pains  and  woes  ; 
In  gentle  sleep  I  closed  my  eyes, 

And  undisturbed  repose. 

When  sleep,  death's  semblance,  o'er  me  spread, 

And  I  unconscious  lay, 
Thy  watchful  care  was  round  my  bed, 

To  guard  me  till  the  day. 

0  let  the  same  almighty  care 

My  waking  hours  attend  ; 
From  every  danger,  every  snare, 

My  heedless  steps  defend. 


ANNE  STEELE.  327 


Smile  on  my  minutes  as  they  roll, 
And  guide  my  future  days  ; 

And  let  thy  goodness  fill  my  soul 
With  gratitude  and  praise. 


'  RESIGNATION. 

WHY  breathes  my  anxious  heart  the  frequent  sigh  ? 
Why  from  my  weak  eye  drops  the  ready  tear  ? 
Is  it  to  mark  how  present  blessings  fly  ? 
Is  it  that  griefs  to  come  awake  my  fear  ? 

0  may  I  still  with  thankful  heart  enjoy 
The  various  gifts  indulgent  heaven  bestows  ! 
Nor  let  ungrateful  diffidence  destroy 
The  present  good  with  fear  of  future  woes. 

Nor  let  me  curious  ask,  if  dark  or  fair 
My  future  hours,  but  in  the  hand  divine 
With  full  affiance  leave  my  every  care  ; 
Be  humble  Hope  and  Resignation  mine. 

Celestial  guests  !  your  smile  can  cheer  the  heart, 
When  melancholy  spreads  her  deepening  gloom ; 
0  come,  your  animating  power  impart, 
And  bid  sweet  flowers  amid  the  desert  bloom. 


Be  earth's  quick  changing  scenes  or  dark  or  fair, 
On  God's  kind  arm,  0  let  my  soul  recline ; 
Be  heaven-born  Hope,  (blest  antidote  of  care !) 
And  humble,  cheerful  Resignation  mine. 


328  AUGUSTUS    MONTAGU    TOPLADY. 


AUGUSTUS  MONTAGU  TOPLADY, 

BEST  known  as  an  earnest  advocate  of  the  Calvinism  of  the  Church 
of  England,  but  a  religious  poet  of  considerable  merit,  was  born  at 
Farnham,  in  Surrey,  in  1740 ;  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and 
Trinity  College,  Dublin ;  and  died,  vicar  of  Broad  Henbury,  in  Devon- 
shire, in  1778. 

HYMN. 

INSPIRER  and  hearer  of  prayer, 
Thou  feeder  and  guardian  of  thine, 
My  all  to  thy  covenant  care 
I  sleeping  and  waking  resign  ; 
If  thou  art  my  shield  and  my  sun, 
The  night  is  no  darkness  to  me, 
And  fast  as  my  moments  roll  on, 
They  bring  me  but  nearer  to  thee. 

Thy  minist'ring  spirits  descend 
To  watch  while  thy  saints  are  asleep, 
By  day  and  by  night  they  attend, 
The  heirs  of  salvation  to  keep  ; 
Bright  seraphs  dispatched  from  the  throne, 
Repair  to  the  stations  assigned, 
/  PAnd  angels  elect  are  sent  down, 
L_To  guard  the  elect  of  mankind. 

Thy  worship  no  interval  knows, 
Their  fervor  is  still  on  the  wing  : 
And  while  they  protect  my  repose, 
They  chant  to  the  praise  of  my  King  : 
I  too,  at  the  season  ordained, 
Their  chorus  forever  shall  join, 
And  love,  and  adore,  without  end, 
Their  faithful  Creator,  and  mine. 


JOHN    SCOTT.  329 


JOHN  SCOTT. 

JOHN  SCOTT,  of  Amwell,.  was  a  Quaker,  and  was  much  respected  by 
Dr.  Johnson,  Sir  William  Jones,  and  other  eminent  men,  for  his  abili- 
ties and  amiable  character.  His  works  entitled  "  The  Garden,"  "  Am- 
well," &c.  were  much  read  near  the  close  of  the  last  century. 

THE     SONG     OF     ZION. 

THEN  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 
And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 
With  priests'  and  warriors'  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 
Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  thy  ways, 
And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 
When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day  ; 
Be  thoughts  of  thee  a  cloudy  screen, 
To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  oh  !  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path, 
In  shade  and  storm,  the  frequent  night : 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 
The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 
And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  the  blood  of  goat, 
The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize  : 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
28* 


330  JOHN    SCOTT. 


Her  father's  God  before  her  moved, 
An  awful  guide,  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day  along  the  astonished  lands, 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 
Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

THE     TEMPESTUOUS     EVENING. 

THERE'S  grandeur  in  the  sounding  storm, 
That  drives  the  hurrying  clouds  along, 
That  on  each  other  seem  to  throng, 
And  mix  in  many  a  varied  form  ; 
While,  bursting  now  and  then  between, 
The  moon's  dim  misty  orb  is  seen, 
And  casts  faint  glimpses  on  the  green. 

Beneath  the  blasts  the  forests  bend, 
And  thick  the  branchy  ruirt  lies, 
And  wide  the  shower  si  foliage  flies, 
The  lake's  black  waves  in  tumult  blend  ; 
Revolving  o'er,  and  o'er,  and  o'er, 
And  foaming  on  the  rocky  shore, 
Whose  caverns  echo  to  their  roar. 

The  sight  sublime  enwraps  my  thought, 
And  swift  along  the  past  it  strays, 
And  much  of  strange  event  surveys, 
What  History's  faithful  tongue  has  taught 
Or  Fancy  formed,  whose  plastic  skill 
The  page  with  fabled  change  can  fill, 
Of  ill  to  good,  or  good  to  ill. 

But  can  my  soul  the  scene  enjoy 
That  rends  another's  breast  with  pain  ? 
0  helpless  he  who  near  the  main, 
Now  sees  its  billowy  rage  destroy. 
Beholds  the  foundering  bark  descend, 
Nor  knows  but  what  its  fate  may  end 
The  moments  of  his  dearest  friend. 


HANNAH    MORE.  331 


HANNAH  MORE. 

THIS  amiable  writer  was  born  in  1745,  at  Stapleton,  in  Gloucester- 
shire, where  her  father  kept  a  school.  Her  first  publication  was  a 
pastoral  drama ;  and  she  produced  soon  after  two  or  three  plays,  which 
were  acted  in  London  with  considerable  success.  She  soon  ceased  to 
write  for  the  theatre,  and  her  occasional  poems,  and  numerous  impor- 
tant prose  works,  on  religious  subjects  and  on  education,  secured  for 
her  a  great  and  enduring  reputation.  She  died  in  1833. 

REFLECTIONS  OP  HEZEKIAH  IN  HIS  SICKNESS. 
"  Set  thine  house  in  order,  for  thou  shalt  die." — Isaiah,  chap,  xxzviii. 

WHAT  !  and  no  more  ?     Is  this,  my  soul,  said  I, 

My  whole  of  being  ?     Must  I  surely  die  ? 

Be  robbed  at  once  of  health,  of  strength,  of  time, 

Of  youth's  fair  promise,  and  of  pleasure's  prime  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  behold  the  face  of  morn, 

The  cheerful  daylight,  and  the  spring's  return  ? 

Must  I  the  festive  bower,  the  banquet  leave, 

For  the  dull  chambers  of  the  darksome  grave  ? 

Have  I  considered  what  it  is  to  die  ? 

In  native  dust,  with  kindred  worms  to  lie ; 

To  sleep  in  cheerless,  cold  neglect !  to  rot ! 

My  body  loathed,  my  very  name  forgot ! 

Not  one  of  all  those  parasites,  who  bend 

The  supple  knee,  their  monarch  to  attend ! 

What,  not  one  friend  ?     No  :  not  a  hireling  slave 

Shall  hail  great  Hezekiah  in  the  grave. 

Where's  he  who  falsely  claimed  the  name  of  Great, 

Whose  eye  was  terror,  and  whose  frown  was  fate, 

Who  awed  a  hundred  nations  from  the  throne  ? 

See  where  he  lies,  dumb,  friendless,  and  alone ! 

Which  grain  of  dust  proclaims  the  noble  birth  ? 

Which  is  the  royal  particle  of  earth  ? 


332  HANNAH    MORE. 


Where  are  the  marks,  the  princely  ensigns — where  ? 
Which  is  the  slave,  and  which  great  David's  heir  ? 
Alas  !  the  beggar's  ashes  are  not  known 
From  his  who  lately  sat  on  Israel's  throne ! 
How  stands  my  great  account  ?     My  soul,  survey 
The  debt  Eternal  Justice  bids  thee  pay ! 
Should  I  frail  memory's  records  strive  to  blot, 
Will  heaven's  tremendous  reckoning  be  forgot  ? 
Can  I,  alas  !  the  awful  volume  tear  ? 
Or  rase  one  page  of  the  dread  register? 

"  Prepare  thy  house,  thy  house  in  order  set : 
Prepare  the  Judge  of  heaven  and  earth  to  meet." 
So  spake  the  warning  Prophet, — awful  words ! 
Which  fearfully  my  troubled  soul  records. 
Am  I  prepared  ?  and  can  I  meet  my  doom, 
Nor  shudder  at  the  dreaded  wrath  to  come  ? 
Is  all  in  order  set,  my  house,  my  heart  ? 
Does  no  besetting  sin  still  claim  a  part  ? 
No  cherished  error,  loath  to  quit  its  place, 
Obstruct  within  my  soul  the  work  of  grace  ? 
Did  I  each  day  for  this  great  day  prepare, 
By  righteous  deeds,  by  sin-subduing  prayer  ? 
Did  I  each  night,  each  day's  offence  repent, 
And  each  unholy  thought  and  word  lament  ? 
Still  have  these  ready  hands  the  afflicted  fed, 
And  ministered  to  Want  her  daily  bread  ? 
The  cause  I  knew  not  did  I  well  explore  ? 
Friend,  advocate,  and  parent  of  the  poor. 
Did  I,  to  gratify  some  sudden  gust 
Of  thoughtless  appetite,  some  impious  lust 
Of  pleasure  or  of  power,  such  sums  employ 
As  would  have  flushed  pale  Penury  with  joy  ? 
Did  I  in  groves  forbidden  altars  raise, 
Or  molten  gods  adore,  or  idols  praise  ? 
Did  my  firm  faith  to  heaven  still  point  the  way  ? 
Did  charity  to  man  my  actions  sway  ? 
Did  meek-eyed  Patience  all  my  steps  attend  ? 
Did  generous  Candor  mark  me  for  her  friend  ? 


HANNAH    MORE. 


Did  I  unjustly  seek  to  build  my  name 

On  the  piled  ruins  of  another's  fame  ? 

Did  I  abhor,  as  hell,  the  insidious  lie, 

The  low  deceit,  the  unmanly  calumny  ? 

Did  my  fixed  soul  the  impious  wit  detest  ? 

Did  my  firm  virtue  scorn  the  unhallowed  jest, 

The  sneer  profane,  and  the  poor  ridicule 

Of  shallow  Infidelity's  dull  school  ? 

Did  I  still  live  as  born  one  day  to  die, 

And  view  the  eternal  world  with  constant  eye  ? 

If  so  I  lived,  if  so  I  kept  the  word, 
In  mercy  view,  in  mercy  hear  me,  Lord ! 
For  oh  !  how  strict  soe'er  I  kept  thy  law, 
From  mercy  only  all  my  hopes  I  draw ; 
Sly  holiest  deeds  indulgence  will  require ; 
The  best  but  to  forgiveness  will  aspire ; 
If  Thou  my  purest  services  regard, 
'Twill  be  with  pardon  only,  not  reward. 
How  imperfection's  stamped  on  all  below ! 
How  sin  intrudes  in  all  we  say  or  do ! 
How  late,  in  all  the  insolence  of  health, 
I  charmed  the  Assyrian  by  my  boast  of  wealth ! 
How  fondly  with  elaborate  pomp  displayed 
My  glittering  treasures  !  with  what  triumph  laid 
My  gold  and  gems  before  his  dazzled  eyes, 
And  found  a  rich  reward  in  his  surprise ! 
Oh,  mean  of  soul !  can  wealth  elate  the  heart, 
Which  of  the  man  himself  is  not  a  part  ? 
Oh,  poverty  of  pride !  oh,  foul  disgrace  ! 
Disgusted  Reason,  blushing,  hides  her  face. 
Mortal  and  proud  !  strange  contradicting  terms ! 
Pride  for  death's  victim,  for  the  prey  of  worms 
Of  all  the  wonders  which  the  eventful  life 
Of  man  presents  ;  of  all  the  mental  strife 
Of  warring  passions  ;  all  the  raging  fires 
Of  furious  appetites  and  mad  desires  ; 
Not  one  so  strange  appears  as  this  alone, 
That  man  is  proud  of  what  is  not  his  own. 


334  HANNAH    MORE. 


How  short  is  human  life !  the  very  breath 
Which  frames  my  words  accelerates  my  death. 
Of  this  short  life  how  large  a  portion's  fled  1 
To  what  is  gone  I  am  already  dead ; 
As  dead  to  all  my  years  and  minutes  past, 
As  I  to  what  remains  shall  be  at  last. 
Can  I  past  miseries  so  far  forget, 
To  view  my  vanished  years  with  fond  regret  ? 
Can  I  again  my  worn-out  fancy  cheat  ? 
Indulge  fresh  hope  ?  solicit  new  deceit  ? 
Of  all  the  vanities  weak  man  admires, 
Which  greatness  gives,  youth  hopes,  or  pride  desires : 
Of  these,  my  soul,  which  hast  thou  not  enjoyed  ? 
With  each,  with  all,  thy  sated  powers  are  cloyed. 
What  can  I  then  expect  from  length  of  days  ? 
More  wealth,  more  wisdom,  pleasure,  health,  or  praise  ? 
More  pleasure  !  hope  not  that,  deluded  king ! 
For  when  did  age  increase  of  pleasure  bring  ? 
Is  health  of  years  prolonged  the  common  boast  ? 
And  dear- earned  fame,  is  it  not  cheaply  lost  ? 
More  wisdom  !  that  indeed  were  happiness ; 
That  were  a  wish  a  king  might  well  confess : 
But  when  did  Wisdom  covet  length  of  days  ? 
Or  seek  its  bliss  in  pleasure,  wealth,  or  praise  ? 
No : — Wisdom  views  with  an  indifferent  eye 
All  finite  joys,  all  blessings  born  to  die. 
The  soul  on  earth  is  an  immortal  guest, 
Compelled  to  starve  at  an  unreal  feast : 
A  spark,  which  upward  tends  by  nature's  force ; 
A  stream,  diverted  from  its  parent  source ; 
A  drop,  dissevered  from  the  boundless  sea  ; 
A  moment,  parted  from  eternity ; 
A  pilgrim,  panting  for  the  rest  to  come  : 
An  exile,  anxious  for  his  native  home. 

Why  should  I  ask  my  forfeit  life  to  save  ? 
Is  heaven  unjust  which  dooms  me  to  the  grave  ? 
Was  I  with  hope  of  endless  days  deceived  ? 
Or  of  loved  life  am  I  alone  bereaved  ? 


HANNAH    MORE.  335 


Let  all  the  great,  the  rich,  the  learned,  the  wise, 

Let  all  the  shades  of  Judah's  monarchs  rise, 

And  say,  if  genius,  learning,  empire,  wealth, 

Youth,  beauty,  virtue,  strength,  renown,  or  health, 

Has  once  reversed  the  immutable  decree 

On  Adam  passed,  of  man's  mortality  ? 

What !  have  these  eyes  ne'er  seen  the  felon- worm 

The  damask  cheek  devour,  the  finished  form  ? 

On  the  pale  rose  of  blasted  beauty  feed, 

And  riot  on  the  lip  so  lately  red  ? 

Where  are  our  fathers  ?     Where  the  illustrious  line 

Of  holy  prophets,  and  of  seers  divine  ? 

Live  they  forever  ?     Do  they  shun  the  grave  ? 

Or  when  did  wisdom  its  professor  save  ? 

When  did  the  brave  escape  ?     When  did  the  breath 

Of  Eloquence  charm  the  dull  ear  of  death  ? 

When  did  the  cunning  argument  avail, 

The  polished  period,  or  the  varnished  tale  ; 

The  eye  of  lightning,  or  the  soul  of  fire, 

Which  thronging  thousands  crowded  to  admire  ? 

E'en  while  we  praise  the  verse,  the  poet  dies ; 

And  silent  as  his  lyre  great  David  lies. 

Thou,  blessed  Isaiah !  who  at  God's  command 

Now  speak'st  repentance  to  a  guilty  land, 

Must  die  !  as  wise  and  good  thou  hadst  not  been, 

As  Nebat's  son,  who  taught  the  land  to  sin. 

And  shall  I  then  be  spared  ?  oh,  monstrous  pride ! 
Shall  I  escape  when  Solomon  has  died  ? 
If  all  the  worth  of  all  the  saints  were  vain, — 
Peace,  peace,  my  troubled  soul,  nor  dare  complain. 
Lord,  I  submit.     Complete  thy  gracious  will ! 
For  if  Thou  slay  me,  I  will  trust  Thee  still. 
Oh !  be  my  will  so  swallowed  up  in  thine, 
That  I  may  do  thy  will  in  doing  mine. 


336  HANNAH    MORE. 


FAITH    IN    HUMBLE    LIFE. 

THY  triumphs,  Faith,  we  need  not  take 

Alone  from  the  blest  martyr's  stake ; 

In  scenes  obscure  no  less  we  see 

That  Faith  is  a  reality ; 

An  evidence  of  things  not  seen, 

A  substance  firm  whereon  to  lean, 

Go,  search  the  cottager's  low  room, 

The  day  scarce  piercing  through  the  gloom ; 

The  Christian  on  his  dying  bed, 

Unknown,  unlettered,  hardly  fed  ; 

No  flattering  witnesses  attend, 

To  tell  how  glorious  was  his  end  ; 

Save  in  the  book  of  life,  his  name 

Unheard ;  he  never  dreamt  of  fame  : 

No  human  consolation  near, 

No  voice  to  soothe,  no  friend  to  cheer ; 

Of  every  earthly  stay  bereft, 

And  nothing — but  his  Saviour — left; 

Fast  sinking  to  his  kindred  dust, 

The  word  of  life  is  still  his  trust ; 

The  joy  God's  promises  impart 

Lies  like  a  cordial  at  his  heart ; 

Unshaken  faith  its  strength  supplies, 

He  loves,  believes,  adores,  and  dies ! 


MORN  ING     HYMN. 

SOFT  slumbers  now  mine  eyes  forsake, 
My  powers  are  all  renewed  ; 

May  my  freed  spirit ^too  awake, 

With  heavenly  strength  endued. 

Thou  silent  murderer,  Sloth,  no  more 
My  mind  imprisoned  keep ; 

Nor  let  me  waste  another  hour 
With  thee,  thou  felon  Sleep. 


11  AX  X  AH     MORE.  337 


Think,  0  my  soul,  could  dying  men 
One  lavished  hour  retrieve, 

Though  spent  in  tears,  and  passed  in  pain, 
What  treasures  would  they  give ! 

But  seas  of  pearls,  and  mines  of  gold, 
Were  offered  then  in  vain ; 

Their  pearl  of  countless  price  is  sold, 
And  where's  the  promised  gain  ? 

Lord,  when  thy  day  of  dread  account 
For  squandered  hours  shall  come, 

Oh !  let  not  this  increase  th'  amount, 
And  swell  the  former  sum. 

Teach  me  in  health  such  good  to  prize, 

I  dying  shall  esteem ; 
And  every  pleasure  to  despise 

I  then  shall  worthless  deem. 

For  all  thy  wondrous  mercies  past 
My  grateful  voice  I'll  raise, 

While  thus  I  quit  my  bed  of  rest, 
Creation's  Lord  to  praise. 
29 


338  ANNA    LETITIA    BARBAULD. 


ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 

Miss  AIKIN,  afterwards  Mrs.  Barbauld,  was  the  only  daughter  of  Dr. 
John  Aikin,  a  Presbyterian  minister.  Early  in  life  she  married  Roche- 
mont  Barbauld,  who  opened  a  seminary  at  Palgrave,  at  which  place  he 
had  obtained  the  charge  of  a  congregation.  In  his  scholastic  employ- 
ment he  was  assisted  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  who  devoted  all  her  talents  to 
the  instruction  of  the  pupils ;  and  it  was  for  them  that  she  composed 
her  well-known  "  Early  Lessons,"  and  "  Hymns  in  Prose."  Of  her 
devotional  poems  too  much  cannot  be  said  in  commendation ;  they 
entitle  her  to  the  esteem  of  every  Christian.  She  died  in  1825. 

AN     ADDRESS     TO     THE     DEITY. 

GOD  of  my  life,  and  Author  of  my  days  ! 

Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise, 

And  trembling  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 

That  hallowed  name,  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung. 

Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 

Than  hide  their  faces,  tremble  and  adore. 

Worms,  angels,  men  in  every  different  sphere, 

Are  equal  all,  for  all  are  nothing  here. 

All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name 

Which  nature's  works  through  all  her  parts  proclaim ; 

I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 

And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul ; 

As  by  a  charm  the  waves  of  grief  subside, 

Impetuous  passion  stops  her  headlong  tide : 

At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease, 

And  my  hushed  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace, 

Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies, 

And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 

Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  in  infinite, 

And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 

But  soon,  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke  ; 
My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke ; 


ANNA    LETITIA    BAKBAULD.  339 


With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 

And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 

But  He  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 

Knowing  our  frame  remembers  man  is  dust. 

His  spirit  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind, 

Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined  ; 

Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 

And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 

His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry, 

His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye ; 

He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 

And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 

Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give, 

Accept  the  vow  and  bid  the  suppliant  live  : 

From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free ! 

Still  every  wish  that  centres  not  in  Thee  : 

Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease, 

And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  pleasure  leads 

By  living  waters  and  through  flowery  meads, 

Where  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene, 

And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene, 

Oh  !  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare, 

And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart, — Beware  ! 

With  caution  let  me  hear  the  syren's  voice, 

And  doubtful  with  a  trembling  heart  rejoice. 

If  friendless  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 

Where  briers  wound  and  thorns  perplex  my  way-— 

Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see, 

And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  Thee  ; 

With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 

Resigned  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live  ; 

Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 

While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

I  read  his  awful  name  emblazoned  high, 

With  golden  letters  on  the  illumined  sky ; 

Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 

Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree ; 


340  ANNA  LETIT1A  BARBAULD. 

In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees ; 
With  Thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk ; 
With  Thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk  ; 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power, 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 
Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  control. 
Thus  shall  I  rest  unmoved  by  all  alarms. 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms  ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  Thee. 
Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye ; 
When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate, 
I  stand  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state ; 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph  and,  a  look  serene ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And  having  lived  to  Thee,  in  Thee  to  die. 

HYMNS. 

JEHOVAH  reigns :  let  every  nation  hear, 
And  at  his  footstool  bow  with  holy  fear ; 
Let  heaven's  high  arches  echo  with  his  name, 
And  the  wide-peopled  earth  his  praise  proclaim. 
Then  send  it  down  to  hell's  deep  glooms,  resounding 
Through  all  her  caves  in  dreadful  murmurs  sounding. 

He  rules  with  wide  and  absolute  command 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  and  the  steadfast  land : 
Jehovah  reigns,  unbounded  and  alone, 
And  all  creation  hangs  beneath  his  throne  : 
He  reigns  alone  ;  let  no  inferior  nature 
Usurp  or  share  the  throne  of  the  Creator. 

He  saw  the  struggling  beams  of  infant  light 
Shoot  through  the  massy  gloom  of  ancient  night ; 


ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD.  341 

His  spirit  hushed  the  elemental  strife, 
And  brooded  o'er  the  kindling  seeds  of  life  : 
Seasons  and  months  began  the  long  procession, 
And  measured  o'er  the  year  in  bright  succession. 

The  joyful  sun  sprung  up  th'  ethereal  way, 
Strong  as  a  giant,  as  a  bridegroom  gay  ; 
And  the  pale  moon  diffused  her  shadowy  light, 
Superior  o'er  the  dusky  brow  of  night : 
Ten  thousand  glittering  lamps  the  skies  adorning, 
Numerous  as  dewdrops  from  the  womb  of  morning. 

Earth's  blooming  face  with  rising  flowers  He  dressed, 
And  spread  a  verdant  mantle  o'er  her  breast ; 
Then  from  the  hollow  of  his  hand  He  pours 
The  circling  waters  round  her  winding  shores, 
The  new-born  world  in  their  cool  arms  embracing, 
And  with  soft  murmurs  still  her  banks  caressing. 

At  length  she  rose  complete  in  finished  pride, 
All  fair  and  spotless  like  a  virgin  bride  ; 
Fresh  with  untarnished  lustre  as  she  stood, 
Her  Maker  blessed  his  work  and  called  it  good  : 
The  morning  stars,  with  joyful  acclamation, 
Exulting  sang,  and  hailed  the  new  creation. 

Yet  this  fair  world,  the  creature  of  a  day, 
Though  built  by  God's  right  hand,  must  pass  away, 
And  long  oblivion  creep  o'er  mortal  things, 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Eternal  night  shall  veil  their  proudest  story, 
And  drop  the  curtain  o'er  all  human  glory. 

The  sun  himself  with  weary  clouds  oppressed, 
Shall  in  his  silent,  dark  pavilion  rest ; 
His  golden  urn  shall  broke  and  useless  lie, 
Amidst  the  common  ruins  of  the  sky ; 
The  stars  rush  headlong  in  their  wild  commotion, 
And  bathe  their  glittering  foreheads  in  the  ocean. 
29* 


342  ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 


But  fixed,  O  God  !  forever  stands  thy  throne ; 
Jehovah  reigns,  a  universe  alone  ; 
The  eternal  fire  that  feeds  each  vital  flame, 
Collected  or  diffused  is  still  the  same  ; 
He  dwells  within  his  own  unfathomed  essence, 
And  fills  all  space  with  his  unbounded  presence, 

But,  oh !  our  highest  notes  the  theme  debase, 
And  silence  is  our  least  injurious  praise. 
Cease,  cease  your  songs,  the  daring  flight  control, 
Revere  Him  in  the  stillness  of  the  soul ; 
With  silent  duty  meekly  bend  before  Him, 
And  deep  within  your  inmost  hearts  adore  Him. 


LOVE     TO     GOD. 

"  Although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom,  neither  shall  fruit  be  in  the  vines ;  the 
labor  of  the  olive  shall  fail,  and  the  fields  shall  yield  no  meat,  the  flocks  shall  be 
cut  off  from  the  fold,  and  there  shall  be  no  herd  in  the  stalls  ;  yet  I  will  rejoice  in 
the  Lord,  I  will  joy  in  the  God  of  my  salvation."— Habakkuk  iii,  17,  18. 

PRAISE  to  God,  immortal  praise, 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days ; 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ ; 

For  the  blessing  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 
For  the  generous  olive's  use. 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripened  grain, 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse. 

All  that  spring,  with  bounteous  hand, 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land ; 
All  that  liberal  autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores. 


ANNA  LETITIA   BARBAULD.  343 


These  to  Thee,  my  God,  we  owe, 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow ; 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear ; 
Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit ; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Xor  the  olive  yield  her  store ; 
Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall ; 

Should  thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
And  the  rising  year  destroy ; 

Yet  to  Thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise  ; 
And  when  every  blessing's  flown, 
Love  Thee — for  Thyself  alone. 

FOR     EASTER     SUNDAY. 

AGAIN  the  Lord  of  life  and  light 

Awakes  the  kindling  ray  ; 
Unseals  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

And  pours  increasing  day. 

Oh !  what  a  night  was  that  which  wrapped 
The  heathen  world  in  gloom ; 

Oh !  what  a  Sun  which  broke  this  day 
Triumphant  from  the  tomb  ! 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid, 

And  loud  hosannas  sung  ; 
Let  gladness  dwell  in  every  heart, 

And  praise  on  every  tongue. 


344  ANNA    LETITIA    BARBAULD. 

Ten  thousand  differing  lips  shall  join 
To  hail  this  welcome  morn, 

Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wings, 
To  nations  yet  unborn. 

Jesus,  the  friend  of  human  kind 

With  strong  compassion  moved, 

Descended,  like  a  pitying  God, 
To  save  the  souls  He  loved. 

The  powers  of  darkness  leagued  in  vain 
To  bind  his  soul  in  death  ; 

He  shook  their  kingdom,  when  He  fell, 
With  his  expiring  breath. 

Not  long  the  toils  of  hell  could  keep 
The  hope  of  Judah's  line  ; 

Corruption  never  could  take  hold 
On  aught  so  much  divine. 

And  now  his  conquering  chariot-wheels 
Ascend  the  lofty  skies  ; 

While  broke,  beneath  his  powerful  cross, 
Death's  iron  sceptre  lies. 

Exalted  high  at  God's  right  hand, 
And  Lord  of  all  below  ; 

Through  Him  is  pardoning  love  dispensed, 
And  boundless  blessings  flow. 

And  still  for  erring,  guilty  man 

A  brother's  pity  flows  ; 
And  still  his  bleeding  heart  is  touched 

With  memory  of  our  woes. 

To  Thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  King, 
Glad  homage  let  me  give  ; 

And  stand  prepared  like  Thee  to  die, 
With  Thee  that  I  may  live. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  345 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  was  bom  in  Northampton,  Massa- 
chusetts, on  the  14th  day  of  May,  1752.  His  father  was  a  merchant, 
of  excellent  character  and  liberal  education,  and  his  mother,  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  great  Jonathan  Edwards.  When  thirteen  years  old  he  en- 
tered Yale  College.  His  previous  unremitted  attention  to  study  had 
impaired  his  health,  and  he  made  little  progress  during  the  first  two 
years  of  his  residence  at  New  Haven ;  but  his  subsequent  intense  and 
uninterrupted  application  enabled  him  to  graduate  in  1769,  the  first 
scholar  in  his  class.  He  was  licensed  to  preach  in  the  Congre- 
gational church,  and  entered  the  army  as  a  chaplain.  In  1778  he  es- 
tablished an  academy  at  Northampton,  which  was  continued  for  five 
years.  In  1783  he  was  ordained  pastor  of  a  church  in  Greenfield, 
Connecticut,  where  he  resided  until  elected  to  succeed  Dr.  Styles,  as 
president  of  Yale  College,  in  1795.  He  died  in  New  Haven  on  the 
llth  of  January,  1817,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 

In  IXZJUJPwight  commenced  writing  the  "  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  an 
"  epic  poem  in  eleven  books,"  which  he  finished  in  1774,  before  he 
was  twenty-three  years  of  age.  It  was  followed  by  "  Greenfield  Hill," 
a  descriptive,  historical,  and  didactic  poem,  which  was  published  in 
1794.  This  work  is  divided  into  seven  parts,  entitled  "  The  Pros- 
pect," «  The  Flourishing  Village,"  «  The  Burning  of  Fairfield,"  "  The  I 
Destruction  of  the  Pequods,"  "  The  Clergyman's  Advice  to  the  Villa-  \ 
gers,"  "  The  Farmer's  Advice  to  the  Villagers,"  and  "  The  Vision, 
Prospect  of  the  Future  Happiness  of  America."  The  "  Triumph  of 
Infidelity,"  a  satire,  was  his  next  attempt  in  poetry ;  and  he  subse- 
quently wrote  several  hymns  and  other  short  pieces,  of  which  there  is 
no  collected  edition. 

THE     COUNTRY     PASTOR. 

AH  !  knew  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
Not  the  least  happy  he,  who,  free  from  broils 
And  base  ambition,  vain  and  bustling  pomp, 
Amid  a  friendly  cure,  and  competence, 
Tastes  the  pure  pleasures  of  parochial  life. 
What  though  no  crowd  of  clients,  at  his  gate, 


346  TLMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


To  falsehood  and  injustice  bribe  his  tongue, 

And  flatter  into  guilt  ? — what  though  no  bright 

And  gilded  prospects  lure  ambition  on 

To  legislative  pride,  or  chair  of  state  ? 

What  though  no  golden  dreams  entice  his  mind 

To  burrow,  with  the  mole,  in  dirt  and  mire  ? 

What  though  no  splendid  villa,  Edened  round 

With  gardens  of  enchantment,  walks  of  state, 

And  all  the  grandeur  of  superfluous  wealth, 

Invite  the  passenger  to  stay  his  steed, 

And  ask  the  liveried  footboy,  "  Who  dwells  here  ?" 

What  though  no  swarms,  around  his  sumptuous  board, 

Of  soothing  flatterers,  humming  in  the  shine 

Of  opulence,  and  honey  from  its  flowers 

Devouring,  till  their  time  arrives  to  sting, 

Inflate  his  mind  ;  his  virtues  round  the  year 

Repeating,  and  his  faults,  with  microscope 

Inverted,  lessen,  till  they  steal  from  sight  ? — 

Yet  from  the  dire  temptations  these  present 

His  state  is  free  ;  temptations,  few  can  stem  ; 

Temptations,  by  whose  sweeping  torrent  hurled 

Down  the  dire  steep  of  guilt,  unceasing  fall 

Sad  victims,  thousands  of  the  brightest  minds 

That  time's  dark  reign  adorn  ;  minds,  to  whose  grasp 

Heaven  seems  most  freely  offered  ;  to  man's  eye, 

Most  hopeful  candidates  for  angels'  joys. 

His  lot,  that  wealth,  and  power,  and  pride  forbids, 
Forbids  him  to  become  the  tool  of  fraud, 
Injustice,  misery,  ruin :  saves  his  soul 
From  all  the  needless  labors,  griefs,  and  cares, 
That  avarice  and  ambition  agonize  ; 
From  those  cold  nerves  of  wealth,  that,  palsied,  feel 
No  anguish  but  its  own  ;  and  ceaseless  lead 
To  thousand  meannesses,  as  gain  allures. 

Though  oft  compelled  to  meet  the  gross  attack 
Of  shameless  ridicule  and  towering  pride, 
Sufficient  good  is  his  ;  good,  real,  pure, 
With  guilt  unmingled.     Rarely  forced  from  home, 


TIMOTHY     DWIGHT.  347 


Around  his  board  his  wife  and  children  smile ; 
Communion  sweetest,  nature  here  can  give, 
Each  fond  endearment,  office  of  delight, 
With  love  and  duty  blending.     Such  the  joy 
My  bosom  oft  has  known.     His,  too,  the  task 
To  rear  the  infant  plants  that  bud  around  ; 
To  ope  their  little  minds  to  truth's  pure  light ; 
To  take  them  by  the  hand,  and  lead  them  on 
In  that  straight,  narrow  road  where  virtue  walks ; 
To  guard  them  from  a  vain,  deceiving  world, 
And  point  their  course  to  realms  of  promised  life. 
His,  too,  the  esteem  of  those  who  weekly  hear 
His  words  of  truth  divine  ;  unnumbered  acts 
Of  real  love  attesting  to  his  eye 
Their  filial  tenderness.     Where'er  he  walks, 
The  friendly  welcome  and  inviting  smile 
Wait  on  his  steps,  and  breathe  a  kindred  joy. 

Oft  too  in  friendliest  association  joined, 
He  greets  his  brethren,  with  a  flowing  heart, 
Flowing  with  virtue  ;  all  rejoiced  to  meet, 
And  all  reluctant  parting  ;  every  aim, 
Benevolent,  aiding  with  purpose  kind ; 
While,  seasoned  with  unblemished  cheerfulness, 
Far  distant  from  the  tainted  mirth  of  vice, 
Their  hearts  disclose  each  contemplation  sweet 
Of  things  divine  ;  and  blend  in  friendship  pure, 
Friendship  sublimed  by  piety  and  love. 

All  virtue's  friends  are  his :  the  good,  the  just, 
The  pious,  to  his  house  their  visits  pay, 
And  converse  high  hold  of  the  true,  the  fair, 
The  wonderful,  the  moral,  the  divine : 
Of  saints  and  prophets,  patterns  bright  of  truth, 
Lent  to  a  world  of  sin,  to  teach  mankind 
How  virtue  in  that  world  can  live  and  shine  ; 
Of  learning's  varied  realms ;  of  Nature's  works ; 
And  that  blessed  book  which  gilds  man's  darksome  way 
With  light  from  heaven ;  of  blessed  Messiah's  throne 
And  kingdom  ;  prophecies  divine  fulfilled, 


348  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 


And  prophecies  more  glorious  yet  to  come 
In  renovated  days ;  of  that  bright  world, 
And  all  the  happy  trains  which  that  bright  world 
Inhabit,  whither  virtue's  sons  are  gone  : 
While  God  the  whole  inspires,  adorns,  exalts  ; 
The  source,  the  end,  the  substance,  and  the  soul. 

His  too  the  task,  the  blessed,  the  useful  task, 
To  in  vigor  order,  justice,  law,  and  rule  ; 
Peace  to  extend,  and  bid  contention  cease ; 
To  teach  the  words  of  life  ;  to  lead  mankind 
Back  from  the  wild  of  guilt  and  brink  of  wo 
To  virtue's  house  and  family ;  faith,  hope, 
And  joy  to  inspire  ;  to  warm  the  soul 
With  love  to  God  and  man ;  to  cheer  the  sad, 
To  fix  the  doubting,  rouse  the  languid  heart ; 
The  wandering  to  restore ;  to  spread  with  down 
The  thorny  bed  of  death  ;  console  the  poor, 
Departing  mind,  and  aid  its  lingering  wing. 

To  him  her  choicest  pages  Truth  expands, 
Unceasing,  where  the  soul-entrancing  scenes 
Poetic  fiction  boasts  are  real  all : 
Where  beauty,  novelty,  and  grandeur  wear 
Superior  charms,  and  moral  worlds  unfold 
Sublimities  transporting  and  divine. 

Not  all  the  scenes  Philosophy  can  boast, 
Though  them  with  nobler  truths  he  ceaseless  blends, 
Compare  with  these.     They,  as  they  found  the  mind, 
Still  leave  it ;  more  informed,  but  not  more  wise  : 
These  wiser,  nobler,  better,  make  the  man. 

Thus  every  happy  mean  of  solid  good 
His  life,  his  studies,  and  profession  yield. 
With  motives  hourly  new,  each  rolling  day 
Allures,  through  wir^om's  path  and  truth's  fair  field, 
His  feet  to  yonder  skies.     Before  him  heaven 
Shines  bright,  the  scope  sublime  of  all  his  prayers, 
The  meed  of  every  sorrow,  pain,  and  toil. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  349 


PREDICTION  TO  JOSHUA  RELATIVE  TO  AMERICA. 

FAR  o'er  yon  azure  main  thy  view  extend, 
Where  seas  and  skies  in  blue  confusion  blend : 
Lo,  there  a  mighty  realm,  by  Heaven  designed 
The  last  retreat  for  poor,  oppressed  mankind ; 
Formed  with  that  pomp  which  marks  the  hand  divine, 
And  clothes  yon  vault  where  worlds  unnumbered  shine. 
Here  spacious  plains  in  solemn  grandeur  spread, 
Here  cloudy  forests  cast  eternal  shade ; 
Rich  valleys  wind,  the  sky-tall  mountains  brave, 
And  inland  seas  for  commerce  spread  the  wave. 
With  nobler  floods  the  sea-like  rivers  roll, 
And  fairer  lustre  purples  round  the  pole. 
Here,  warmed  by  happy  suns,  gay  mines  unfold 
The  useful  iron  and  the  lasting  gold  ; 
Pure,  changing  gems  in  silence  learn  to  glow, 
And  mock  the  splendors  of  the  covenant  bow. 
On  countless  hills,  by  savage  footsteps  trod, 
That  smile  to  see  the  future  harvest  nod, 
In  glad  succession  plants  unnumoered  bloom, 
And  flowers  unnumbered  breathe  a  rich  perfume. 
Hence  life  once  more  a  length  of  days  shall  claim, 
And  health,  reviving,  light  her  purple  flame. 
Far  from  all  realms  this  world  imperial  lies, 
Seas  roll  between,  and  threatening  tempests  rise. 
Alike  removed  beyond  ambition's  pale, 
And  the  bold  pinions  of  the  venturous  sail ; 
Till  circling  years  the  destined  period  bring, 
And  a  new  Moses  lift  the  daring  wing, 
Through  trackless  seas  an  unknown  flight  explores, 
And  hails  a  new  Canaan's  promised  shores. 
On  yon  far  strand  behold  that  little  train 
Ascending  venturous  o'er  the  unmeasured  main  , 
No  dangers  fright,  no  ills  the  course  delay ; 
'Tis  virtue  prompts,  and  God  directs  the  way. 
Speed — speed,  ye  sons  of  truth  !  let  Heaven  befriend, 
Let  angels  waft  you,  and  let  peace  attend. 
30 


350  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 

0  !  smile,  thou  sky  serene ;  ye  storms,  retire  ; 

And  airs  of  Eden  every  sail  inspire, 

Swift  o'er  the  main  behold  the  canvass  fly, 

And  fade  and  fade  beneath  the  farthest  sky  ; 

See  verdant  fields  the  changing  waste  unfold ; 

See  sudden  harvests  dress  the  plains  in  gold ; 

In  lofty  walls  the  moving  rocks  ascend, 

And  dancing  woods  to  spires  and  temples  bend.  .  .  . 

Here  empire's  last  and  brightest  throne  shall  rise, 

And  Peace,  and  Right,  and  Freedom  greet  the  skies ; 

To  morn's  far  realms  her  trading  ships  shall  sail, 

Or  lift  their  canvass  to  the  evening  gale  : 

In  wisdom's  walks  her  sons  ambitious  soar, 

Tread  starry  fields,  and  untried  scenes  explore. 

And,  hark  !  what  strange,  what  solemn  breaking  strain 

Swells,  wildly  murmuring,  o'er  the  far,  far  main ! 

Down  Time's  long,  lessening  vale  the  notes  decay, 

And,  lost  in  distant  ages,  roll  away. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  351 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS, 

THE  sixth  president  of  the  United  States,  and  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  of  his  time,  was  a  poet  of  no  mean  rank,  though  his  political  rela- 
tions prevented  a  just  estimate  of  his  literary  abilities  by  his  contempo- 
raries. Among  his  poems  are  "  Oberon,  translated  from  the  German 
of  Wieland ;"  "  Dermot  McMorrogh,  or  the  Conquest  of  Ireland ;"  and 
"  Poems  of  Religion  and  Society,"  a  posthumous  collection  of  his  hymns 
and  other  short  pieces,  with  notices  of  his  life  and  character.  Some  of 
the  religious  poems  of  Mr.  Adams  are  of  great  excellence.  He  was 
born  in  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  in  1767,  and  died  in  the  capitol,  at 
Washington,  in  1848. 

/  TO    A    BEREAVED    MOTHER. 

SURE,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 

When  infant  innocence  ascends, 
Some  angel  brighter  than  the  rest 

The  spotless  spirit's  flight  attends. 
On  wings  of  ecstasy  they  rise, 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll, 
Till  some  fair  sister  of  the  skies 

Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 

That  inextinguishable  beam, 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth, 
Sheds  a  more  dim,  discolored  gleam 

The  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 
Closed  in  this  dark  abode  of  clay, 

The  stream  of  glory  faintly  burns  : — 
Not  unobserved,  the  lucid  ray 

To  its  own  native  fount  returns. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  mortal  breath 

Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume, 
And  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death 

Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb — 


352  JOHN  auiNCY  ADAMS. 


No  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire, 

Has  quenched  the  radiance  of  the  flame  ; 
Back  to  its  God  the  living  fire 

Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 

Fond  mourner  !  be  that  solace  thine  ! 

Let  hope  her  healing  charm  impart, 
And  soothe,  with  melodies  divine, 

The  anguish  of  a  mother's  heart. 
0,  think  !  the  darlings  of  thy  love, 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 
Amid  unnumbered  saints  above, 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  God. 

Of  their  short  pilgrimage  on  earth 

Still  tender  images  remain  : 
Still,  still  they  bless  thee  for  their  birth, 

Still  filial  gratitude  retain. 
Each  anxious  care,  each  rending  sigh, 

That  wrung  for  them  the  parent's  breast, 
Dwells  on  remembrance  in  the  sky, 

Amid  the  raptures  of  the  blest. 

O'er  thee,  with  looks  of  love,  they  bend  ; 

For  thee  the  Lord  of  life  implore  ; 
And  oft,  from  sainted  bliss  descend, 

Thy  wounded  quiet  to  restore. 

in  the  stillness  of  the  night 

They  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  bed ; 
I  Oft,  till  the  morn's  returning  light, 

Still  watchful  hover  o'er  thy  head. 

Hark  !  hi  such  strains  as  saints  employ, 

They  whisper  to  thy  bosom  peace ; 
Calm  the  perturbed  heart  to  joy, 

And  bid  the  streaming  sorrow  cease. 
Then  dry,  henceforth,  the  bitter  tear  ; 

Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see  : — 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here, 

They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee. 


JOii.V   UVJ1NCY  ADAMS. 


353 


THE     HOUR-GLASS. 

ALAS  !  how  swift  the  moments  fly ! 
How  flash  the  years  along  ! 

Scarce  here,  yet  gone  already  by, 
The  burden  of  a  song. 

See  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood  pass, 
And  age,  with  furrowed  brow  ; 

Time  was — Time  shall  be — drain  the  glass- 
But  where  in  Time  is  now  ? 

Time  is  the  measure  but  of  change  ; 

No  present  hour  is  found  ; 
The  past,  the  fat-lire,  fill  the  range 

Of  Time's  unceasing  round. 
Where,  then,  is  now  ?     In  realms  above, 

With  God's  atoning  Lamb, 
In  regions  of  eternal  love, 

Where  sits  enthroned  I  AM. 

Then,  pilgrim,  let  thy  joys  and  tears 

On  Time  no  longer  lean ; 
But  henceforth  all  thy  hopes  and  fears 

From  earth's  affections  wean : 
To  God  let  votive  accents  rise ; 

With  truth,  with  virtue,  live  ; 
So  all  the  bliss  that  Time  denies 

Eternity  shall  give. 


LORD    OF    ALL    WORLDS. 

LORD  of  all  worlds,  let  thanks  and  praise 

To  thee  forever  fill  my  soul ; 
With  blessings  thou  hast  crowned  my  days, 

My  heart,  my  head,  my  hand  control : 
O,  let  no  vain  presumptions  rise, 

No  impious  murmur  in  my  heart, 
To  crave  the  boon  thy  will  denies, 

Or  shrink  from  ill  thy  hands  impart. 
30* 


354  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


Thy  child  am  I,  and  not  an  hour, 

Revolving  in  the  orbs  above, 
But  brings  some  token  of  thy  power, 

But  brings  some  token  of  thy  love ; 
And  shall  this  bosom  dare  repine, 

In  darkness  dare  deny  the  dawn, 
Or  spurn  the  treasures  of  the  mine, 

Because  one  diamond  is  withdrawn  ? 

The  fool  denies,  the  fool  alone, 

Thy  being,  Lord,  and  boundless  might  ; 
Denies  the  firmament,  thy  throne, 

Denies  the  sun's  meridian  light; 
Denies  the  fashion  of  his  frame, 

The  voice  he  hears,  the  breath  he  draws 
0  idiot  atheist !  to  proclaim 

Effects  unnumbered  without  cause  ! 

Matter  and  mind,  mysterious  one, 

Are  man's  for  threescore  years  and  ten ; 
Where,  ere  the  thread  of  life  was  spun  ? 

Where,  when  reduced  to  dust  again  ? 
All-seeing  God,  the  doubt  suppress  ; 

The  doubt  thou  only  canst  relieve 
My  soul  thy  Saviour-Son  shall  bless, 

Fly  to  thy  gospel,  and  believe. 


JOHN    dUINCY    ADAMS. 


355 


WHY    SHOULD    I    FEAR    IX    EVIL    DAYS. 

WHY  should  I  fear  in  evil  days, 

With  snares  encompassed  all  around  ? 
What  trust  can  transient  treasures  raise 

For  them  in  riches  who  abound  ? 
His  brother  who  from  death  can  save  ? 

What  wealth  can  ransom  him  from  God  ? 
What  mine  of  gold  defraud  the  grave  ? 

What  hoards  but  vanish  at  his  nod  ? 

To  live  forever  is  their  dream  ; 

Their  houses  by  their  name  they  call ; 
While,  borne  by  time's  relentless  stream, 

Around  them  wise  and  foolish  fall ; 
Their  riches  others  must  divide  ; 

They  plant,  but  others  reap  the  fruit : 
In  honor  man  cannot  abide, 

To  death  devoted,  like  the  brute. 

This  is  their  folly,  this  their  way ; 

And  yet  in  this  their  sons  delight ; 
Like  sheep,  of  death  the  destined  prey, 

The  future  scorn  of  the  upright ; 
The  grave  their  beauty  shall  consume, 

Their  dwellings  never  see  them  more ; 
But  God  shall  raise  me  from  the  tomb, 

And  life  for  endless  time  restore. 

What  though  thy  foe  in  wealth  increase, 

And  fame  and  glory  crown  his  head  ? 
Fear  not,  for  all  at  death  shall  cease, 

Nor  fame,  nor  glory,  crown  the  dead : 
While  prospering  all  around  thee  smiled, 

Yet  to  the  grave  shalt  thou  descend ; 
The  senseless  pride  of  fortune's  child 

Shall  share  the  brute  creation's  end. 


350  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH, 

ONE  of  the  most  celebrated  poets  of  modern  times,  was  born  at 
Cockermouth,  in  Cumberland,  on  the  7th  of  April,  1770 ;  was  educated 
at  Cambridge,  with  his  brother,  the  late  Rev.  Christopher  Wordsworth, 
D.  D.,  and  after  a  long  career  of  the  truest  glory,  is  still  living.  A 
complete  edition  of  his  works  has  been  published  in  Philadelphia,  under 
the  care  of  his  friend  Professor  Henry  Reed. 

INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY,    FROM    RECOLLECTIONS 
OF    EARLY    CHILDHOOD. 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

THERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  spring, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 
The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare : 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth, — 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  357 


To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong  ; 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  world  is  gay : 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 

Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 

Shepherd  boy  ! 
Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  made  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss — I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh,  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen, 
While  earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm  : — 

I  hear,  I  hear — with  joy  I  hear  ! 

But  there's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


358  WILLIAM     vYORDSWORTH. 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar  ; 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  ; 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy : 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest. 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, — 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand,  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art : 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  359 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song  : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part, — 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 
Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind ; — 

Mighty  prophet !     Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day, — a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

0  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 


360  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise, 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither  ; 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds  !  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  361 


As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng  ; 

Ye  that  pipe,  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ; 
We  will  grieve  not, — rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering  ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, — 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 
And  O,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  : 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, — 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 
31 


362  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


ODE     TO     DUTY. 

STERN  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 
0  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  tho  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not ; 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security  ; 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  find  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried  ; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  363 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 

The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fail- 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  ; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

Oh  !  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live  ! 


THE  LABORER  S  NOONDAY  HYMN. 

UP  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn  ; 
And  He  accepts  the  punctual  hymn, 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim. 

Nor  will  He  turn  his  ear  aside 
From  holy  offerings  at  noontide  ; 
Then,  here  reposing,  let  us  raise 
A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 


304  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


What  though  our  burden  be  not  light, 
We  need  not  toil  from  morn  to  night : 
The  respite  of  the  mid-day  hour 
Is  in  the  thankful  creature's  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest, 
That,  drawn  from  this  our  hour  of  rest,  t 
Are  with  a  ready  heart  bestowed 
Upon  the  service  of  our  God  ! 

Why  should  we  crave  a  hallowed  spot  ? 
An  altar  is  in  each  man's  cot, 
A  church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 
Its  living  roof  above  our  heads. 

Look  up  to  heaven !  the  industrious  sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run  : 
He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray, 
But  our  immortal  spirits  may. 

Lord  !  since  his  rising  in  the  east, 
If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed, 
Guide  from  thy  love's  abundant  source 
What  yet  remains  of  this  day's  course. 

Help  with  thy  grace  through  life's  short  day, 
Our  upward  and  our  downward  way ; 
And  glorify  for  us  the  west, 
When  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 

THOUGHT    ON    THE    SEASONS. 

FLATTERED  with  promise  of  escape 

From  every  hurtful  blast, 
Spring  takes,  0  sprightly  May  !  thy  shape, 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Less  fair  is  Summer  riding  high 

In  fierce  solstitial  power, 
Less  fair  than  when  a  lenient  sky 

Brings  on  a  parting  hour. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  365 

When  earth  repays  with  golden  sheaves 

The  labors  of  the  plough, 
And  ripening  fruits,  and  forest  leaves, 

All  brighten  on  the  bough, 

What  pensive  beauty  Autumn  shows, 

Before  she  hears  the  sound 
Of  Winter  rushing  in  to  close 

The  emblematic  round ! 

Such  be  our  Spring,  our  Summer  such ; 

So  may  our  Autumn  blend 
With  hoary  Winter,  and  life  touch 

With  heaven-born  hope  her  end ! 

APOSTROPHE    TO     THE     DEITY. 

THOU,  dread  source, 

Prime,  self-existing  cause  and  end  of  all 
That  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place ; 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 
Set  and  sustained ; — Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein  with  our  simplicity  awhile 
Might'st  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed ; 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  deathlike  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense, 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule — Thou,  Thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  spirits, 
Which  thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves  : 
For  adoration  thou  endurest ;  endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws 
(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 
Even  to  Thy  Being's  infinite  majesty  ! 
This  universe  shall  pass  away — a  work 
31* 


366  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

Glorious !  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 

A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  thee. 

Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 

No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 

Loved  haunts  like  these  ;  the  unimprisoned  mind 

May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still,  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 

What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  youth  were  mine  ;  when,  stationed  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill — expectant  I  beheld 

The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned 

Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep ;  and  bring  the  day 

His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  towards  the  deep 

Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 

Attended ;  then,  my  spirit  was  entranced 

With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss, 

And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  1 

TO     THE      SUPREME      BEING. 

THE  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed, 
If  Thou  the  Spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  : 
My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 

That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed  ; 

Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed, 

That  quickens  only  where  Thou  sayest  it  may  : 
Unless  Thou  show  to  us  thy  own  true  way, 

No  man  can  find  it :  Father  !  Thou  must  lead  : 

Do  Thou  then  breathe  these  thoughts  into  my  mind, 

By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred, 

That  in  thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 

The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 

That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee  t 

And  sound  thy  praises  everlastingly. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


367 


JEHOVAH     THE     PROVIDER. 

AUTHOR  of  being  ;  life-sustaining  King  ! 

Lo  !  Want's  dependant  eye  from  Thee  implores 

The  seasons,  which  provide  nutritious  stores  : 
Give  to  her  prayers  the  renovating  Spring, 
And  Summer-heats  all  perfecting  that  bring 

The  fruits  which  Autumn  from  a  thousand  stores 

Selecteth  provident !  when  earth  adores 
Her  God,  and  all  her  vales  exulting  sing. 
Without  thy  blessing,  the  submissive  steer 

Bends  to  the  ploughman's  galling  yoke  in  vain ; 
Without  thy  blessing  on  the  varied  year, 

Can  the  swarth  reaper  grasp  the  golden  grain  ? 
Without  thy  blessing,  all  is  black  and  drear ; 

With  it,  the  joys  of  Eden  bloom  again. 

LA  TIMER      AND     RIDLEY. 

How  fast  the  Marian  death-list  is  unrolled  ! 

See  Latimer  and  Ridley,  in  the  might 

Of  faith,  stand  coupled  for  a  common  flight ! 
One  (like  those  prophets  whom  God  sent  of  old) 
Transfigured,  from  this  kindling  hath  foretold 

A  torch  of  unextinguishable  light : 
The  other  gains  a  confidence  as  bold  : 

And  thus  they  foil  their  enemy's  despite. 
The  penal  instruments,  the  shows  of  crime 

Are  glorified,  while  this  once  mitred  pair 
Of  saintly  friends  "  the  murtherer's  chain  .partake, 
Corded  and  burning  at  the  social  stake." 
Earth  never  witnessed  object  more  sublime 

In  constancy,  in  fellowship  more  fair. 

EXILED      REFORMERS. 

SCATTERING,  like  birds  escaped  the  fowler's  net, 
Some  seek  with  timely  flight  a  foreign  strand, 
Most  happy  reassembled  in  a  land 

By  dauntless  Luther  freed,  could  they  forget 


368  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


Their  country's  woes.     But  scarcely  have  they  met, 
Partners  in  faith,  and  brothers  in  distress, 
Free  to  pour  forth  their  common  thankfulness, 

Ere  hope  declines ;  their  union  is  beset 
With  speculative  notions  rashly  sown, 

Whence  thickly-sprouting  growth  of  poisonous  weeds  ; 

Their  forms  are  broken  staves ;  their  passions,  steeds 
That  master  them.     How  enviably  blest 

Is  he  who  can,  by  help  of  grace,  enthrone 

The  peace  of  God  within  his  single  breast ! 

NEW    CHURCHES. 

BUT  liberty  and  triumphs  on  the  main, 

And  laurelled  armies  not  to  be  withstood, 
What  serve  they  ?  if,  on  transitory  good 
Intent,  and  sedulous  of  abject  gain, 
The  state  (oh  !  surely  not  preserved  in  vain  !) 

Forbear  to  shape  due  channels  which  the  flood 
Of  sacred  truth  may  enter — till  it  brood 
O'er  the  wide  realm,  as  o'er  th'  Egyptian  plain, 
The  all-sustaining  Nile.     No  more — the  time 
Is  conscious  of  her  want ;  through  England's  bounds 

In  rival  haste  the  wise  for  temples  rise ! 
I  hear  their  sabbath-bells'  harmonious  chime 
Float  on  the  breeze — the  heavenliest  of  all  sounds 
That  hill  or  vale  prolongs  or  multiplies. 

THE     KIRK     OF     ULPHA. 

THE  KIRK  OF  ULPHA  to  the  Pilgrim's  eye 
Is  welcome  as  a  star  that  doth  present 
Its  shining  forehead  through  the  peaceful  rent 

Of  a  black  cloud  diffused  o'er  half  the  sky : 

Or  as  a  fruitful  palm-tree  towering  high 

O'er  the  parched  waste,  beside  an  Arab's  tent ; 

Or  the  Indian  tree,  whose  branches  downward  bent, 

Take  root  again,  a  boundless  canopy. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


How  sweet  were  leisure  !  could  it  yield  no  more 

Than  'mid  that  wave- washed  churchyard  to  recline, 
From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine ; 

Or  there  to  pace,  and  mark  the  summits  hoai 
Of  distant  moonlit  mountains  faintly  shine, 

Soothed  by  th'  unseen  river's  gentle  roar. 


THE    WORLD    IS    TOO    MUCH    WITH    US. 

THE  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 

Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ;     . 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


370  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY, 

THE  author  of  "The  World  Before  the  Flood,"  "  Greenland,"  "  The 
Pelican  Island,"  &c.,  is  the  son  of  a  Moravian  clergyman,  and  was 
born  at  Irvine,  in  Scotland,  on  the  4th  of  November,  1771.  For  many 
years  he  was  editor  of  a  newspaper  in  Sheffield,  where  he  is  still  liv- 
ing, regarded  by  all  who  know  him  with  respect  and  affection.  He  is 
perhaps  the  best  of  the  religious  poets  of  England  who  have  written 
since  the  time  of  Cowper. 


THE    GRAVE. 

THERE  is  a  rest  for  those  who  weep, 

A  rest  for  weary,  pilgrims  found  ; 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 

No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer  evening's  latest  sigh 
That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 

And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 
From  all  my  toil. 

For  Misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 

And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild ; 
I  perish  ; — 0  my  mother  earth  ! 

Take  home  thy  child ! 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


371 


Hark ! — a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear, 

My  pulse — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave ; 
Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 
"  I  am  the  grave  ! 

"  The  grave,  that  never  spake  before, 

Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide  ; 
Oh,  listen  ! — I  will  speak  no  more  : 
Be  silent,  Pride ! 

"  Art  thou  a  wretch  of  hope  forlorn, 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 
By  fell  despair  ? 

"  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 

Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast, 
And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 
Murder  thy  rest  ? 

"  Lashed  by  the  furies  of  the  mind, 

From  wrath  and  vengeance  wouldst  thou  flee ; 
Ah  !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool !  to  find 
A  friend  in  me. 

"  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 

Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ! 
By  the  dread  secrets  of  the  womb, 
By  death  and  hell ! 

"  I  charge  thee,  live  ! — repent  and  pray : 

In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore, 
There  yet  is  mercy  ; — go  thy  way 
And  sin  no  more. 

"  Art  thou  a  mourner  ?    Hast  thou  known 

The  joy  of  innocent  delights  ? 
Endearing  days  forever  flown, 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 


372  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 

"  Oh  !  live  ;  and  deeply  cherish  still 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past ; 
Rely  on  heaven's  unchanging  will 
For  peace  at  last. 

"  Art  thou  a  wanderer  ?    Hast  thou  seen 

Overwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  ? 
A  shipwrecked  sufferer  hast  thou  been — 
Misfortune's  mark  ? 

"  Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 

Condemned  in  wretchedness  to  roam, 
Live  !  thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, 
A  quiet  home. 

"To  friendship  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame, 

And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, 
Who  stole  into  thy  breast  to  aim 
A  surer  blow  ? 

"Live  !  and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss, 

A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told ; 
Thou  hast  mistaken  solid  dross 

For  Friendship's  gold. 

"  Go  seek  that  treasure,  seldom  found, 

Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 
And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound, 
With  heavenly  balm. 

"  In  woman  hast  thou  placed  thy  bliss, 

And  did  the  fair  one  faithless  prove  ? 
Hath  she  betrayed  thee  with  a  kiss, 
And  sold  thy  love  ? 

"  Live  !  'twas  a  false,  bewildering  fire  : 

Too  often  Love's  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  sweet  desire, 
But  kills  the  heart. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


373 


"  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 

A  brighter  Maiden's  virtuous  charms ! 
Blessed  shalt  thou  be,  supremely  blessed, 
In  Beauty's  arms. 

"  Whate'er  thou  art,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
Confess  thy  folly, — kiss  the  rod, 
And,  in  thy  chastening  sorrows,  see 
The  hand  of  God. 

'  "A  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break  ; 
Afflictions  all  his  children  feel : 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake  ; — 
He  wounds  to  heal ! 

"  Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand, 
Prostrate  his  Providence  adore : 
'Tis  done !     Arise  !     He  bids  thee  stand, 
To  fall  no  more. 

"  Now,  traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears  ! 

To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
Through  Time's  dark  wilderness  of  years, 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

"  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found  ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground, 

"  The  soul,  of  origin  divine, 

God's  glorious  image  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine, 
A  spark  of  day  ! 

"  The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 

A  transient  meteor  of  the  sky : 
The  soul ,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 
Shall  never  die !" 


374  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


THE    STRANGER    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 

A  TOOK  wayfaring  man  of  grief 

Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer,  "  Nay." 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  He  went,  or  whence  He  came  ; 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love, — I  knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  entered  ; — not  a  word  He  spake  ; — 

Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread, 

I  gave  Him  all ;  He  blessed  it,  brake, 

And  ate  ; — but  gave  me  part  again : 

Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then, 

For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 

That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

I  spied  Him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was  gone 
The  heedless  water  mocked  his  thirst : 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  : 
I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up  ; 
Thrice  from  the  stream  He  drained  my  cup, 
Dipped,  and  returned  it  running  o'er ; 
I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

'Twas  night ;  the  floods  were  out, — it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof ; 
I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  Him  welcome  to  my  roof ; 
I  warmed,  I  clothed,  I  cheered  my  guest ; 
Laid  Him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 
Then  made  the  earth  my  bed,  and  seemed 
In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dreamed. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY.  375 

Stripped,  wounded,  beaten  nigh  to  death, 

I  found  Him  by  the  highway  side ; 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath, 

Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  He  was  healed ; 
I  had  myself  a  wound  concealed, 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 
And  Peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  Him  next,  condemned 

To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  morn  ; 
The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemmed, 

And  honored  Him  midst  shame  and  scorn : 
My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try, 
He  asked  if  I  for  Him  would  die  ; 
The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  run  chill, 
But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "  I  will." 

Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view, 

The  stranger  darted  from  disguise, 
The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew, 

My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes : 
He  spake ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named, 
"  Of  Me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed, 
These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 
Fear  not,  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 

'ON    THE    LOSS    OF    FRIENDS. 

FRIEND  after  friend  departs  ; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts, 

That  finds  not  here  an  end ! 
Were  this  frail  world  our  final  rest, 
Living,  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, — 

Beyond  the  reign  of  death, — 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime, 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath  : 


376  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upward  and  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown, 
A  long  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone ; 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  glorious  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  passed  away  ; 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  : 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
But  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 

CHRIST      THE      PURIFIER. 

"  He  shall  sit  as  a  refiner  and  purifier  of  silver."— Mai.  in.  3. 

HE  that  from  dross  would  win  the  precious  ore, 
Bends  o'er  the  crucible  an  earnest  eye, 

The  subtle  searching  process  to  explore, 

Lest  the  one  brilliant  moment  should  pass  by, 

When  in  the  molten  silver's  virgin  mass 

He  meets  his  pictured  face  as  in  a  glass. 

Thus  in  God's  furnace  are  his  people  tried ; 

Thrice  happy  they  who  to  the  end  endure : 
But  who  the  fiery  trial  may  abide  ? 

Who  from  the  crucible  come  forth  so  pure, 
That  He  whose  eyes  of  flame  look  through  the  whole, 
May  see  his  image  perfect  in  the  soul  ? 

Nor  with  an  evanescent  glimpse  alone, 

As  in  that  mirror  the  refiner's  face  ; 
But,  stamped  with  heaven's  broad  signet,  there  be  shown 

Immanuel's  features  full  of  truth  and  grace  : 
And  round  that  seal  of  love  this  motto  be, 
"Not  for  a  moment,  but — eternity  !" 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY.  377 


LIFE,    DEATH,    AND    JUDGMENT. 

FEW,  few,  and  evil  are  thy  days, 

Man  of  a  woman  born  ! 
Peril  and  trouble  haunt  thy  ways. 

Forth,  like  a  flower  at  morn, 
Thy  tender  infant  springs  to  light, 

Youth  blossoms  to  the  breeze, 
Age,  withering  age,  is  cropped  ere  night : 

Man  like  a  shadow  flees. 

And  dost  thou  look  on  such  an  one  ? 

Will  God  to  judgment  call 
A  worm,  for  what  a  worm  hath  done 

Against  the  Lord  of  all  ? 
As  fail  the  waters  from  the  deep, 

As  summer  brooks  run  dry, 
Man  lieth  down  in  dreamless  sleep, 

His  life  is  vanity. 

Man  lieth  down,  no  more  to  wake, 

Till  yonder  arching  sphere 
Shall  with  a  roll  of  thunder  break, 

And  nature  disappear. 
Oh  !  hide  me  till  thy  wrath  be  past, 

Thou,  who  canst  slay  or  save  ! 
Hide  me  where  hope  may  anchor  fast, 

In  my  Redeemer's  grave ! 

'WHAT   is   PRAYER? 

PRAYER  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire, 

Uttered  or  unexpressed  ; 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire, 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear  ; 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 
32* 


378  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try  ; 
Prayer,  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 
The  Christian's  native  air  ; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death — 
He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice, 

Returning  from  his  ways  ; 
While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 

And  cry,  "  Behold,  he  prays  !" 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one, 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind  ; 

While  with  the  Father  and  the  Son, 
Sweet  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone  : 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads  ; 
And  Jesus  on  the  eternal  throne 

For  mourners  intercedes. 

0  Thou !  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 
The  life,  the  truth,  the  way  ! 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod  : 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray. 

THE    DAY    AFTER    JUDGMENT. 

THE  days  and  years  of  time  are  fled, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  have  shone  their  last ; 

The  earth  and  sea  gave  up  their  dead, 

Then  vanished  at  th'  archangel's  blast. 

All  secret  things  have  been  revealed, 

Judgment  is  passed,  the  sentence  sealed  ; 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY.  379 

And  man  to  all  eternity 

What  he  is  now  henceforth  must  be. 

From  Adam  to  his  youngest  heir, 

Not  one  escaped  that  muster-roll ; 
Each,  as  if  he  alone  were  there, 

Stood  up,  and  won  or  lost  his  soul. 
These  from  the  Judge's  presence  go, 
Down  into  everlasting  wo  ; 
Vengeance  hath  barred  the  gates  of  hell, — 
The  scenes  within  no  tongue  can  tell. 

But  lo  !  far  off  the  righteous  pass 

To  glory,  from  the  King's  right  hand ; 

In  silence  on  the  sea  of  glass 

Heaven's  numbers  without  number  stand, 

While  He  who  bore  the  cross  lays  down 

His  priestly  robe  and  victor  crown ; 

The  mediatorial  reign  complete, 

All  things  are  put  beneath  his  feet. 

Then  every  eye  in  him  shall  see 

(While  thrones  and  powers  before  Him  fall) 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity, 

Where  God  himself  is  all  in  all. 
Oh  !  how  eternity  shall  ring 
With  the  first  note  the  ransomed  sing ; 
While  in  that  strain  all  voices  blend, 
Which  once  begun  shall  never  end. 

In  that  unutterable  song, 

Shall  I  employ  immortal  breath  ? 
Or,  with  the  wicked  borne  along, 

Forever  die  the  second  death  ? 
Jesus  !  my  life,  my  light,  Thou  art ; 
Thy  word  is  in  my  mouth,  my  heart  ; 
Lord,  I  believe, — my  spirit  save 
From  sinking  lower  than  the  grave. 


380  JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


HALLELUJAH. 

HARK  !  the  song  of  Jubilee  ; 

Loud  as  mighty  thunders  roar, 
Or  the  fulness  of  the  sea 

When  it  breaks  upon  the  shore  : 
Hallelujah !  for  the  Lord 

God  omnipotent  shall  reign  ; 
Hallelujah  !  let  the  word 

Echo  round  the  earth  and  main. 

Hallelujah  ! — hark  !  the  sound 

From  the  centre  to  the  skies, 
Wakes  above,  beneath,  around, 

All  creation's  harmonies  : 
See  Jehovah's  banners  furled, 

Sheathed  his  sword  :  He  speaks — 'tis  done, 
And  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 

Are  the  kingdoms  of  his  Son. 

He  shall  reign  from  pole  to  pole, 

With  illimitable  sway ; 
He  shall  reign  when  like  a  scroll 

Yonder  heavens  have  passed  away  ; 
Then  the  end  ! — beneath  his  rod 

Man's  last  enemy  shall  fall : 
Hallelujah !  Christ  in  God, 

God  in  Christ,  is  all  in  all. 


JAMES    HOGG.  381 


JAMES  HOGG, 

THE  "  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  was  twenty  years  of  age  before  ne  learn- 
ed the  alphabet,  yet  he  rose  to  a  very  high  rank  among  the  litera- 
ry men  of  his  country.  "  He  is  altogether  an  extraordinary  being," 
said  Mr.  Southey  ;  "  a  character  such  as  will  not  appear  twice  in  five 
centuries,  and  differing  most  remarkably  from  Burns  and  all  other  self- 
taught  writers."  Hogg's  religious  enthusiasm  was  associated  with  the 
Covenanters  and  their  trials,  and  the  spirit  of  his  best  pieces  is  alto- 
gether in  keeping  with  the  character  of  these  sternly  devout  people. 
He  was  born  in  1772,  and  died  in  1835. 


SING  with  me  !  sing  with  me  ! 
Weeping  brethren,  sing  with  me ! 
For  now  an  open  heaven  I  see, 
And  a  crown  of  glory  laid  for  me. 
How  my  soul  this  earth  despises ! 
How  my  heart  and  spirit  rises ! 
Bounding  from  the  flesh  I  sever ! 
World  of  sin,  adieu  forever ! 

Sing  with  me !  sing  with  me  ! 
Friends  in  Jesus,  sing  with  me  ! 
All  my  sufferings,  all  my  wo, 
All  my  griefs  I  here  forego. 
Farewell  terrors,  sighing,  grieving, 
Praying,  hearing,  and  believing, 
Earthly  trust  and  all  its  wrongings, 
Earthly  love  and  all  its  longings. 

Sing  with  me  !  sing  with  me  ! 
Blessed  spirits,  sing  with  me ! 
To  the  Lamb  our  song  shall  be, 
Through  a  glad  eternity  ! 


382 


JAMES    HOGG. 


Farewell  earthly  morn  and  even, 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  of  heaven  ; 
Heavenly  portals  ope  before  me, 
Welcome,  Christ,  in  all  thy  glory ! 


A      HEBREW      MELODY. 

ON  Carmel's  brow  the  wreathy  vine 

Had  all  its  honors  shed, 
And  o'er  the  vales  of  Palestine 

A  sickly  paleness  spread  ; 
When  the  old  seer  by  vision  led, 

And  energy  sublime, 
Into  that  shadowy  region  sped, 

To  muse  on  distant  time. 

He  saw  the  valleys  far  and  wide, 

But  sight  of  joy  was  none  ; 
He  looked  o'er  many  a  mountain  side, 

But  silence  reigned  alone, 
Save  that  a  boding  voice  sang  on, 

By  wave  and  waterfall, 
As  still,  in  harsh  and  heavy  tone, 

Deep  unto  deep  did  call. 

On  Kison's  strand  and  Ephratah 

The  hamlets  thick  did  lie ; 
No  wayfarer  between  he  saw, 

No  Asherite  passed  by  ; 
No  maiden  at  her  task  did  ply, 

No  sportive  child  was  seen ; 
The  lonely  dog  barked  wearily 

Where  dwellers  once  had  been. 

Oh  !  beauteous  were  the  palaces 

On  Jordan  wont  to  be, 
And  still  they  glimmered  to  the  breeze, 

Like  stars  beneath  the  sea ! 


JAMES    HOGG.  383 


But  vultures  held  their  jubilee 

Where  harp  and  cymbal  rung, 

And  there  as  if  in  mockery 
The  baleful  satyr  sung. 

But  who  had  seen  that  Prophet's  eye 

On  Carmel  that  reclined ! 
It  looked  not  on  the  times  gone  by, 

But  those  that  were  behind  ; 
His  gray  hair  streamed  upon  the  wind, 

His  hands  were  raised  on  high, 
As,  mirrored,  on  his  mystic  mind 

Arose  futurity. 

He  saw  the  feast  in  Bozrah  spread 

Prepared  in  ancient  day  ; 
Eastward,  away  the  eagle  sped, 

And  all  the  birds  of  prey. 
"  Who's  this,"  he  cried,  "  comes  by  the  way 

Of  Edom,  all  divine, 
Travelling  in  splendor,  whose  array 

Is  red,  but  not  with  wine  ?" 

Blessed  be  the  herald  of  our  King 

That  comes  to  set  us  free  ! 
The  dwellers  of  the  rock  shall  sing, 

And  utter  praise  to  thee  ! 
Tabor  and  Hermon  yet  shall  see 

Their  glories  glow  again, 
And  blossoms  spring  on  field  and  tree, 

That  ever  shall  remain. 

The  happy  child  in  dragon's  way 

Shall  frolic  with  delight ; 
The  lamb  shall  round  the  leopard  play, 

And  all  in  love  unite  ; 
The  dove  on  Zion's  hill  shall  light, 

That  all  the  world  must  see. 
Hail  to  the  journey er,  in  his  might, 

That  comes  to  set  us  free  ! 


384  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

THIS  great  genius,  whose  influence  upon  taste  and  opinion  has  per- 
haps been  greater  than  that  of  any  other  author  who  has  written  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  was  born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary's,  Devonshire,  in  1773, 
and  died  at  Highgate  in  July,  1834.  His  poetry  exhibits  a  gorgeous 
and  powerful  imagination,  a  perfect  command  of  language,  and  extra- 
ordinary knowledge  of  human  nature. 

FROM    "RELIGIOUS    MUSINGS. " 

BLEST  are  they, 

Who  in  this  fleshly  world,  the  elect  of  Heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  through  the  deeds  of  men, 
Adore  with  steadfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him,  Nature's  Essence,  Mind,  and  Energy  ! 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend, 
Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things, 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  their  Father's  throne 
Lead  gradual — else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
They  nor  contempt  embosom  nor  revenge  ; 
For  they  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform, 
The  Supreme  Fair,  sole  Operant ;  in  whose  sight 
All  things  are  pure,  his  strong  controlling  love 
Alike  from  all  educing  perfect  good. 

Their's  too  celestial  courage,  inly  armed, 
Dwarfing  Earth's  giant  brood,  what  time  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compare  ! 
And  marching  onwards  view  high  o'er  their  heads 
His  waving  banners  of  omnipotence. 

They  cannot  dread  created  might,  who  love 
God,  the  Creator ! — fair  and  lofty  thought ! 
It  lifts  and  swells  my  heart !     And  as  I  muse, 
Behold !  a  vision  gathers  in  my  soul, 
Voices  and  shadowy  shapes,  in  human  guise. 
I  seem  to  see  the  phantom,  near,  pass  by, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  385 

Hotly-pursued,  and  pale !     From  rock  to  rock 

He  bounds  with  bleeding  feet,  and  through  the  swamp, 

The  quicksand,  and  the  groaning  wilderness, 

Struggles  with  feebler  and  yet  feebler  flight, 

But  lo  !  an  altar  in  the  wilderness, 

And  eagerly  yet  feebly,  lo  !  he  grasps 

The  altar  of  the  living  God  !  and  there, 

With  wan  reverted  face,  the  trembling  wretch 

All  wildly  listening  to  his  hunter-fiends, 

Stands,  till  the  last  faint  echo  of  their  yell 

Dies  in  the  distance.     Soon  refreshed  from  Heaven 

He  calms  the  throb  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 

His  countenance  settles ;  a  soft  solemn  bliss 

Swims  in  his  eyes  :  his  swimming  eyes  upraised, 

And  Faith's  whole  armor  girds  his  limbs !     And  thus, 

Transfigured,  with  a  meek  and  dreadless  awe, 

A  solemn  hush  of  spirit,  he  beholds 

All  things  of  terrible  seeming :  yea,  unmoved 

Views  e'en  the  immitigable  ministers, 

That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  days. 

For  even  these  on  wings  of  healing  come, 

Yea,  kindling  with  intenser  Deity  ; 

From  the  celestial  mercy-seat  they  speed, 

And  at  the  renovating  wells  of  love, 

Have  filled  their  vials  with  salutary  wrath ; 

To  sickly  Nature  more  medicinal, 

Than  what  sweet  balm  the  weeping  good  man  pours 

Into  the  lone,  despoiled,  traveller's  wounds ! 

Thus,  from  th'  Elect,  regenerate  through  faith, 
Pass  the  dark  passions,  and  what  thirsty  cares 
Drink  up  the  spirit,  and  the  dim  regards 
Self- centre.     Lo,  they  vanish !  or  acquire 
New  names,  new  features, — by  supernal  grace 
Enrobed  with  light,  and  naturalized  in  Heaven. 
As  when  a  shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn, 
Through  some  thick  fog  creeps  timorous  with  slow  foot, 
Darkling  with  earnest  eyes  he  traces  out 
Th'  immediate  road,  all  else  of  fairest  kind 
33 


386  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Hid  or  deformed.     But  lo  !  the  burning  sun ! 

Touched  by  th'  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam, 

Straight  the  black  vapor  melteth,  and  in  globes 

Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree ; 

On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs  ; 

Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays, 

And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  glory ! 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 
Omnific.     His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 
Truth  of  subliming  import !  with  the  which 
Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 
He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flies, 
With  blessed  outstarting  !     From  himself  he  flies, 
Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 
Views  all  creation ;  and  he  loves  it  all, 
And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good  ! 
This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  Most  High ! 
The  cherubs,  and  the  trembling  seraphim 
Can  press  no  nearer  to  th'  Almighty's  throne. 
But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 
Unfeeling  of  our  Universal  Sire, 
Haply  for  this,  some  younger  angel  now 
Looks  down  on  human  nature  :  and,  behold  ! 
A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 
Embattling  interests  on  each  other  rush 
With  unhelmed  rage  ! 

'Tis  the  sublime  of  man, 
Our  noontide  majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole ! 
This  fraternizes  man,  this  constitutes 
Our  charities  and  bearings.     But  'tis  God 
Diffused  through  all.  that  doth  make  all  one  whole ; 
This  the  worst  superstition,  him  except 
Aught  to  desire,  Supreme  reality  ! 
The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss  ! 
0  fiends  of  superstition  !  not  that  oft 
The  erring  priest  hath  stained  with  brother's  blood 
Your  grisly  idols,  not  for  this  may  wrath 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  387 

Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One ! 

But  o'er  some  plain  that  steameth  to  the  sun, 

Peopled  with  death  ;  or,  where  more  hideous  trade, 

Loud  laughing,  packs  his  bales  of  human  anguish ; 

I  will  raise  up  a  mourning,  0  ye  fiends ! 

And  curse  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  faith  ; 

Hiding  the  present  God,  whose  presence  lost, 

The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 

An  anarchy  of  spirits,  toy-bewitched, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 

No  common  centre  man,  no  common  sire 

Knoweth  !     A  sordid  solitary  thing, 

'Mid  countless  brethren,  with  a  lonely  heart, 

Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  savage  roams, 

Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  self  the  whole  ; 

When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  one  self !  self  that  no  alien  knows ! 

Self,  far  diffused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel ! 

Self,  spreading  still  oblivious  of  its  own, 

Yet  all  of  all  possessing !  this  is  faith ! 

This  the  Messiah's  destined  victory  ! 

But  first  offences  needs  must  come  !     Even  now 

(Black  Hell  laughs  horrible — to  hear  the  scoff !) 

Thee  to  defend,  meek  Galilsean  !   Thee 

And  thy  mild  laws  of  love  unutterable, 

Mistrust  and  Enmity  have  burst  the  bands 

Of  social  peace ;  and  list'ning  Treachery  lurks, 

With  pious  fraud  to  snare  a  brother's  life  ; 

And  childless  widows  o'er  the  groaning  land 

Wail  numberless  ;  and  orphans  weep  for  bread  ; 

Thee  to  defend,  dear  Saviour  of  mankind  ! 

Thee,  Lamb  of  God  !    Thee,  blameless  Prince  of  Peace ! 

From  all  sides  rush  the  thirsty  brood  of  war ; 

Austria,  and  that  foul  woman  of  the  North, 

The  lustful  murd'ress  of  her  wedded  lord  : 

And  he,  connatural  mind  !  whom  (in  their  songs 

So  bards  of  elder  time  had  haply  feigned) 

Some  fury  fondled  in  her  hate  to  man, 


388  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Bidding  her  serpent  hair  in  mazy  surge 

Lick  his  young  face,  and  at  his  mouth  imbreathe 

Horrible  sympathy  !  and  leagued  with  these 

Each  petty  German  princeling,  nursed  in  gore  ! 

Soul-hardened  barterers  of  human  blood  ! 

Death's  prime  slave  merchants !  scorpion  whips  of  fate ! 

Nor  least  in  savagery  of  holy  zeal, 

Apt  for  the  yoke,  the  race  degenerate, 

Whom  Britain  erst  had  blushed  to  call  her  sons  ! 

Thee  to  defend,  the  Moloch  priest  prefers 

The  prayer  of  hate,  and  bellows  to  the  herd ; 

That  Deity,  accomplice  Deity, 

In  the  fierce  jealousy  of  wakened  wrath 

Will  go  forth  with  our  armies  and  our  fleets 

To  scatter  the  red  ruin  on  their  foes ! 

0  blasphemy  !  to  mingle  fiendish  deeds 

With  blessedness ! 

Lord  of  unsleeping  Love, 
From  everlasting  Thou  !  we  shall  not  die. 
These,  even  these,  in  mercy  didst  thou  form, 
Teachers  of  good  through  evil,  by  brief  wrong 
Making  truth  lovely,  and  her  future  might 
Magnetic  o'er  the  fixed  untrembling  heart. 

A     CHRISTMAS     CAROL. 

THE  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed, 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay  : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread, 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  mother's  song  the  Virgin-Mother  sung. 

They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 

Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 

Around  them  shone,  suspending  night ; 
While  sweeter  than  a  mother's  song, 

Blessed  angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  birth, 

Glory  to  God  on  high  !  and  peace  on  earth. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  389 

She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  babe  she  pressed ; 

And  while  she  cried,  The  babe  is  mine  ! 
The  milk  rushed  faster  to  her  breast ; 

Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  morn : 

Peace,  peace  on  earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born. 

Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate ; 
That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 

Oh  !  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 
Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story, 
Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 

And  is  not  war  a  youthful  king, 

A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring ; 

Him  earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail ! 
Their  friend,  their  playmate  !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 

"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  ! 

I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean, 

And  therefore  is  my  soul  elate. 

War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  defiled, 

That  from  the  aged  father  tears  his  child  ! 

"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 

He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son, 
The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 

Steals  all  his  widow's  toil  had  won ; 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  night,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 

"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease  ; 

I'm  poor,  and  of  a  low  estate, 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 

Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn  ; 

Peace,  peace  on  earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born !" 
33* 


390  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  LL.  D.,  was  born  in  Bristol  on  the  12th  of  Au- 
gust, 1774,  and  was  educated  at  Baliol  College,  with  the  design  of  his 
entering  the  church.  His  career  at  Oxford  was  a  brief  one  ;  his  ten- 
dency towards  Socinianism  made  the  plan  marked  out  for  him  disagree- 
able; and  he  returned  to  Bristol,  where,  in  1794.  in  conjunction  with 
a  friend,  he  published  his  first  collection  of  poems.  His  heterodox  no- 
tions in  religion  and  politics  disappeared  in  a  few  years,  and  applying 
his  great  abilities  to  literature,  he  gradually  rose  to  the  first  rank  of  the 
authors  of  his  country.  He  died  at  Keswick  on  the  21st  of  March,  1843, 
in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age.  The  best  edition  of  the  Poetical 
Works  of  Southey  is  that  published  in  New  York  by  Messrs.  Appleton, 
in  one  very  large  octavo  volume,  with  all  his  latest  revisions,  and  his 
posthumous  pieces. 


THEY  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die  ; 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell : 

Earthly  these  passions,  as  of  earth, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth. 

But  love  is  indestructible  ; 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth, 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returncth ; 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

And  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 

Oh  !  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 

The  babe,  the  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  wo,  the  anxious  night, 
For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight  ? 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


391 


I    AFFLICTION. 

METHINKS  if  ye  would  know 
How  visitations  of  calamity 
Affect  the  pious  soul,  'tis  shown  you  here. 
Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  which,  through  the  sky 
Sailing  along,  doth  cross  in  her  career 
The  rolling  moon.     I  watched  it  as  it  came, 
And  deemed  the  deep  opaque  would  blot  her  beams ; 
But  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own ; 
Then,  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene. 

REMEMBRANCE. 

MAN  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage, 

As  through  the  world  he  wends ; 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 
To  school  the  little  exile  goes, 

Torn  from  his  mother's  arms  : 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes  ? 

What  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms  ? 

Condemned  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 

And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lightens,  as  she  counts  the  hours 

That  hasten  his  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

The  child's  sad  thoughts  will  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers,  with  a  sigh, 

The  comforts  of  his  home. 


392 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


Youth  comes :  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harassed  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  !  no ;  for  hopes  too  long  delayed, 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betrayed, 

The  fabled  bliss  destroy ; 
And  he  remembers,  with  a  sigh, 
The  careless  days  of  infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives, 

And  other  thoughts  come  on ; 
But,  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth, 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone  ; 
Cold,  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed, 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye, 
Remembering,  with  an  envious  sigh, 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 
Of  this  our  Mortal  Pilgrimage, 

With  feeble  step  and  slow  ; 
New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  Experience  learns  too  late, 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by, 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er ; 
Yet  Age  remembers,  with  a  sigh, 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


WILLIAM    HERBERT.  393 


WILLIAM  HERBERT. 

THE  Hon.  and  Rev.  William  Herbert,  the  late  Dean  of  Manchester, 
«vas  the  third  son  of  Henry  Earl  of  Caernarvon,  and  father  of  Mr. 
Henry  William  Herbert,  of  Newark  in  New  Jersey.  He  was  one  of 
•Jie  most  thoroughly  accomplished  men  of  his  time,  and  his  numerous 
vvorks  illustrate  large  abilities,  fine  taste,  and  an  honorable  character. 
His  most  celebrated  poem  is  "  Attila,"  which  with  his  other  original 
ind  translated  poems  has  recently  been  published  in  three  volumes, 
>ctavo.  Mr.  Herbert  was  born  in  1778,  and  died  in  1846. 

HYMN     TO     DEATH. 

WHAT  art  thou,  0  relentless  visitant, 
Who  with  an  earlier  or  later  call, 
Dost  summon  every  spirit  that  abides 
In  this  our  fleshly  tabernacle  ?     Death  ! 
The  end  of  worldly  sorrowing  and  joy, 
That  breakest  short  the  fantasies  of  youth, 
The  proud  man's  glory,  and  the  lingering  chain 
Of  hopeless  destitution  !     The  dark  gate 
And  entrance  into  that  untrodden  realm, 
Where  we  must  all  hereafter  pass  !     Art  thou 
An  evil  or  a  boon  ?  that  some  shrink  back 
With  shuddering  horror  from  the  dreaded  range 
Of  thine  unmeasured  empire,  others  plunge 
Unbidden,  goaded  by  the  sense  of  ill, 
Or  weariness  of  being,  into  the  abyss  ! 
And  should  we  call  those  blest  who  journey  on 
Upon  this  motley  theatre,  through  life 
Successful,  unto  the  allotted  term 
Of  threescore  years  and  ten,  even  so  strong, 
That  they  exceed  it  ?  or  those,  who  are  brought  down 
Before  their  prime,  and  like  the  winged  tribes, 
Ephemeral,  children  of  the  vernal  beam, 
Just  flutter  round  the  sweets  of  life  and  die  ? — 
An  awful  term  thou  art ;  and  still  must  be, 
To  all  who  journey  to  that  bourne,  from  whence 
Return  is  none,  and  from  whose  distant  shore 


394  WILLIAM    HERBERT. 

No  rumor  has  come  back  of  good  or  ill, 

Save  to  the  faithful,  and  even  they  but  view 

Obscurely  things  unknown  and  unconceived, 

And  judge  not  even,  by  what  sense  the  bliss, 

Which  they  imagine,  shall  hereafter  be 

Enjoyed  or  apprehended.     And  shall  man 

Unbidden  rush  on  that  mysterious  change, 

Which,  whether  he  believe  or  mock  the  creed 

Of  those  who  trust,  awaits  him,  and  must  bring 

Or  good,  or  evil,  or  annihilate 

The  sense  of  being,  and  involve  him  quite 

In  darkness  upon  which  no  dawn  shall  break  !— 

Fearful  and  dreaded  must  thy  bidding  be 

To  such  as  have  no  light  within,  vouchsafed 

From  the  Most  High,  no  reason  for  their  hope  ; 

But  go  from  this  firm  world,  into  the  void 

Where  no  material  body  may  reside, 

By  fleshly  cares  polluted  and  unmeet 

For  spiritual  joy ;  and  ne'er  have  known, 

Or  knowing,  have  behind  them  cast  the  love 

Of  their  Redeemer,  who  thine  awful  bonds, 

Grim  Potentate,  has  broken,  and  made  smooth 

The  deathbed  of  the  just  through  faith  in  Him. 

How  oft,  at  midnight,  have  I  fixed  my  gaze 

Upon  the  blue  unclouded  firmament, 

With  thousand  spheres  illumined,  each  perchance 

The  powerful  centre  of  revolving  worlds  ! 

Until,  by  strange  excitement  stirred,  the  mind 

Has  longed  for  dissolution,  so  it  might  bring 

Knowledge,  for  which  the  spirit  is  athirst, 

Open  the  darkling  stores  of  hidden  time, 

And  show  the  marvel  of  eternal  things, 

Which,  in  the  bosom  of  immensity, 

Wheel  round  the  God  of  Nature.     Vain  desire  ! 

Illusive  aspirations  !  daring  hope  ! 

Worm  that  I  am,  who  told  me  I  should  know 

More  than  is  needful,  or  hereafter  dive 

Into  the  counsel  of  the  God  of  worlds  ? 


V/ILLIAM     HERBERT. 


395 


Or  ever,  in  the  cycle  unconceived 

Of  wondrous  eternity,  arrive 

Beyond  the  narrow  sphere,  by  Him  assigned 

To  be  my  dwelling  wheresoe'er  ?     Enough 

To  work  in  trembling  my  salvation  here, 

Waiting  thy  summons,  stern,  mysterious  Power, 

Who  to  thy  silent  realm  hast  called  away 

All  those  whom  nature  twined  around  my  -breast 

In  my  fond  infancy,  and  left  me  here 

Denuded  of  their  love  !     Where  are  ye  gone, 

And  shall  we  wake  from  the  long  sleep  of  death, 

To  know  each  other,  conscious  of  the  ties 

That  linked  our  souls  together,  and  draw  down 

The  secret  dewdrop  on  my  cheek,  whene'er 

I  turn  unto  the  past  ?  or  will  the  change 

That  comes  to  all,  renew  the  altered  spirit 

To  other  thoughts,  making  the  strife  or  love 

Of  short  mortality  a  shadow  past, 

Equal  illusion  ?     Father,  whose  strong  mind 

Was  my  support,  whose  kindness  as  the  spring 

Which  never  tarries  !     Mother,  of  all  forms 

That  smiled  upon  my  budding  thoughts  most  dear ! 

Brothers  !  and  thou,  mine  only  sister  !  gone 

To  the  still  grave,  making  the  memory 

Of  all  my  earliest  time,  a  thing  wiped  out, 

Save  from  the  glowing  spot,  which  lives  as  fresh 

In  my  heart's  core,  as  when  we  last  in  joy 

Were  gathered  round  the  blithe  paternal  board  ! 

Where  are  ye  ?     Must  your  kindred  spirits  sleep 

For  many  a  thousand  years,  till  by  the  trump 

Roused  to  new  being  ?     Will  affections  then 

Burn  inwardly,  or  all  our  loves  gone  by 

Seem  but  a  speck  upon  the  roll  of  time, 

Unworthy  our  regard  ? — This  is  too  hard 

For  mortais  to  unravel,  nor  has  He 

Vouchsafed  a  clue  to  man,  who  bade  us  trust 

To  Him  our  weakness,  and  we  shall  wake  up 

After  his  likeness,  and  be  satisfied. 


396  C.    C.    COLTON. 


C.  0.  COITON, 

THE  author  of  "  Lacon,"  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  ob- 
tained a  fellowship.  He  entered  the  established  church,  and  though 
he  held  the  vicarage  of  Kew  with  Petersham,  in  Surrey,  he  was  a 
well-known  frequenter  of  the  gaming-table  ;  and,  suddenly  disappear- 
ing from  his  usual  haunts  in  the  metropolis,  about  the  time  of  a 
murder  that  attracted  much  attention,  it  was  suspected  he  had  fallen 
by  the  hand  of  an  assassin.  It  wad  however  afterwards  ascertained 
that  he  had  absconded,  to  avoid  his  creditors  ;  and,  in  1828,  a  succes- 
sor was  appointed  to  his  living.  He  then  went  to  reside  in  America  : 
but  subsequently  lived  in  Paris,  a  professed  gamester.  He  committed 
suicide  at  Fontainebleau,  in  1832.  His  principal  poems  are  in  three 
volumes,  entitled  "  The  Conflagration  of  Moscow,"  "  Hypocrisy,"  and 
"  Modern  Antiquity,  and  other  poems." 

LIFE. 

How  long  shall  man's  imprisoned  spirit  groan 

'Twixt  doubt  of  heaven  and  deep  disgust  of  earth  ? 

Where  all  worth  knowing  never  can  be  known, 

And  all  that  can  be  known,  alas  !  is  nothing  worth. 

Untaught  by  saint,  by  cynic,  or  by  sage, 

And  all  the  spoils  of  time  that  load  their  shelves, 

We  do  not  quit,  but  change  our  joys  in  age — 

Joys  framed  to  stifle  thought,  and  lead  us  from  ourselves. 

The  drug,  the  cord,  the  steel,  the  flood,  the  flame, 

Turmoil  of  action,  tedium  of  rest, 
And  lust  of  change,  though  for  the  worst,  proclaim 

How  dull  life's  banquet  is  :  how  ill  at  ease  the  guest. 

Known  were  the  bill  of  fare  before  we  taste? 

Who  would  not  spurn  the  banquet  and  the  board — 
Prefer  th'  eternal,  but  oblivious  fast, 

To  life's  frail-fretted  thread,  and  death's  suspended  sword  ? 


C.    C.    COLTON. 


397 


He  that  the  topmost  stone  of  Babel  planned, 
And  he  that  braved  the  crater's  boiling  bed — 

Did  these  a  clearer,  closer  view  command 

Of  heaven  or  hell,  we  ask,  than  the  blind  herd  they  led  ? 

Or  he  that  in  Valdarno  did  prolong 

The  night,  her  rich  star-studded  page  to  read — 

Could  he  point  out,  midst  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

His  fixed  and  final  home,  from  fleshy  thraldom  freed  ? 

Minds  that  have  scanned  creation's  vast  domain, 
And  secrets  solved,  till  then  to  sages  sealed, 

Whilst  nature  owned  their  intellectual  reign 

Extinct,  have  nothing  known  or  nothing  have  revealed. 

Devouring  grave  !  we  might  the  less  deplore 

Th'  extinguished  lights  that  in  thy  darkness  dwell, 

Wouldst  thou,  from  that  last  zodiac,  one  restore, 

That  might  th'  enigma  solve,  and  doubt,  man's  tyrant,  quelL 

To  live  in  darkness — in  despair  to  die — 

Is  this  indeed  the  boon  to  mortals  given  ? 
Is  there  no  port — no  rock  of  refuge  nigh  ? 

There  is — to  those  who  fix  their  anchor-hope  in  heaven. 

Turn  then,  O  man  !  and  cast  all  else  aside  : 

Direct  thy  wandering  thoughts  to  things  above — 

Low  at  the  cross  bow  down — in  that  confide, 

Till  doubt  be  lost  in  faith,  and  bliss  secured  hi  love. 
34 


398  REGINALD  HEUER. 


REGINALD  HEBER. 

THIS  eminent  person  was  born  at  Malpas,  in  Cheshire,  on  the  21st 
of  April,  1783,  and  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age,  he  entered 
Brazen  Nose  College,  Oxford,  where  he  obtained  the  chancellor's 
prize  for  a  Latin  poem,  and  greatly  distinguished  himself  by  an  Eng- 
lish poem,  entitled  "Palestine."  Leaving  the  University, he  travelled 
on  the  continent,  and  on  his  return  was  presented  with  a  living  in 
Shropshire,  where  for  several  years  he  devoted  himself  with  much  GS- 
siduity  to  his  profession.  It  was  here  that  he  wrote  most  of  his 
hymns  and  other  poems,  made  his  translations  from  Pindar,  and 
prepared  his  edition  of  Jeremy  Taylor.  In  1822,  he  was  appointed 
Bishop  of  Calcutta,  and  soon  after  his  arrival  in  India,  he  died  of 
apoplexy,  at  Trichinopoli.  Heber  was  one  of  the  sweetest  of  the 
poets  who  have  sung  of  religion.  His  hymns  are  for  the  Christian 
what  the  unchaste  songs  of  Moore  are  for  the  sensualist. 

THE    PASSAGE    OF    THE    RED    SEA. 

FOR  many  a  coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear, 

The  hireling  guards  of  Mizraim's  throne,  were  there ; 

On  either  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 

The  parched  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalek, 

While  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood, 

Decked  in  Behemoth's  spoils,  the  tall  Shangalla  strode. 

Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with  gold, 

Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  rolled  ? 

So  these  are  they,  whom  lord  of  Afric's  fates, 

Old  Thebes,  has  poured  through  all  her  hundred  gates. 

Mother  of  armies  !     How  the  emerald  glowed, 

Where  flushed  with  power  and  vengeance  Pharaoh  rode ; 

And  stoled  in  white,  those  blazing  wheels  before 

Osiris'  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore  : 

And  still  reponsive  to  the  trumpet's  cry, 

The  priestly  sistrum  murmured  "  Victory." 

Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert's  gloom, 

Whom  come  ye  forth  to  combat  ?  warrior,  whom  ? 

These  flocks  and  herds,  this  faint  and  weary  train, 


REGINALD   HEBER.  399 


Red  from  the  scourge,  and  weary  from  the  chain  ? 
Fiiend  of  the  poor !  the  poor  and  friendless  save — 
Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom !  help  the  slave. 
North,  south,  and  west  the  sandy  whirlwinds  fly 
The  circling  pall  of  Egypt's  chivalry. 

On  earth's  last  margin  throng  the  weeping  train, 
Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on — And  must  we  sweep  the  main  ? 
Mid  the  light  spray  the  snorting  camels  stood, 
Nor  bathed  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood. 
He  comes — their  leader  comes — the  man  of  God 
O'er  the  wide  water  lifts  his  mighty  rod, 
And  onward  treads ;  the  circling  waves  retreat 
In  hoarse  deep  murmurs  from  his  holy  feet : 
And  the  chafed  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 
The  hard  wet  sand  and  coral  hills  below. 
With  limbs  that  falter  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass  a  deep  and  slippery  dell ; 
Round  them  arise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurled, 
The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world ; 
And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green, 
And  caves,  the  sea-calf's  low-roofed  haunts,  are  seen. 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread, 
The  seething  waters  storm  above  their  head ; 
While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day, 
And  fades  on  Edom's  hills  its  latest  ray. 
Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light, 
Or  dark  to  them  or  cheerless  came  the  night ; 
Still  in  the  van  along  that  dreadful  road 
Blazed  broad  and  fierce  the  brandished  torch  of  God, 
Its  meteor  glare  a  tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave ; 
While  its  blest  beams  a  sunlike  heat  supply, 
WTarm  every  cheek  and  dance  in  every  eye — 
To  them  alone : — for  Mizraim's  wizard  train 
Invoke  for  light  their  monster  gods  in  vain  : 
Clouds  heaped  on  clouds  their  struggling  sight  confine, 
And  tenfold  darkness  broods  along  their  line  ; 
Yet  on  they  go  by  reckless  vengeance  led, 


400  REGINALD  IIEBER. 


And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean's  bed. 

Till  midway  now  that  strange  and  fiery  form, 

Showed  his  dread  visage,  lightening  through  the  storm, 

With  withering  splendor  blasted  all  their  might, 

And  brake  their  chariot  wheels  and  marred  their  coursers'  flight. 

"Fly,  Mizraim,  fly,"  the  ravenous  floods  they  see, 

And  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity  ! 

"  Fly,  Mizraim,  fly,"  from  Edom's  coral  strand, 

Again  the  prophet  stretched  his  dreadful  wand  : 

With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters  sweep, 

And  all  is  waves — a  dark  and  lonely  deep : 

Yet  o'er  those  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  passed, 

As  mortal  wailing  swelled  the  nightly  blast, 

And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  surges  bore 

The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia's  shore. 

Oh  !  welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel  stood 
In  trustless  wonder  by  the  avenging  flood  ! 
Oh  !  welcome  came  the  cheerful  morn  to  show 
The  drifted  wreck  of  Zoan's  pride  below ; 
The  mingled  limbs  of  men,  the  broken  car, 
A  few  sad  relics  of  a  nation's  war : 
Alas,  how  few  !     Then  soft  as  Elim's  well, 
The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell ; 
And  he  whose  hardened  heart  alike  had  borne 
The  hours  of  bondage  and  the  oppressor's  scorn, 
The  stubborn  slave,  by  hope's  new  beams  subdued, 
In  faltering  accents  sobbed  his  gratitude. 
Till,  kindling  into  warmer  zeal  around, 
The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound ; 
And  in  fierce  joy  no  more  by  doubt  suppressed, 
The  struggling  spirit  throbbed  in  Miriam's  breast. 
She — with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 
The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye — 
Poured  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet  harmony. 
"  Where  now,"  she  sang,  "  the  tall  Egyptian  spear, 
Oris'  sunlike  shield  and  Zoan's  chariot,  where  ? 
Above  their  ranks  the  whelming  waters  spread ; 
Shout  Israel !  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed  !" 


REGINALD  HEBER.  401 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

THOU  art  gone  to  the  grave — but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass  the  tomb ; 

The  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portals  before  thee, 
And  the  lamp  of  his  love  is  thy  guide  through  the  gloom. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer  behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy  side, 

But  the  wide  arms  of  mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  hope  since  the  Sinless  has  died. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — and  its  mansion  forsaking, 
Perhaps  thy  tried  spirit  in  doubt  lingered  long, 

But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beamed  bright  on  thy  waking, 
And  the  song  which  thou  heard'st  was  the  seraphim's  song. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — but  'twere  wrong  to  deplore  thee, 
When  God  was  thy  ranson,  thy  guardian,  thy  guide : 

He  gave  thee,  and  took  thee,  and  soon  will  restore  thee, 
Where  death  hath  no  sting,  since  the  Saviour  hath  died. 


H  Y  M.N     ON     THE     CREATION. 

OH  !  blest  were  the  accents  of  early  creation, 

When  the  words  of  Jehovah  came  down  from  above, 

In  the  clods  of  the  earth  to  infuse  animation, 
And  wake  their  cold  atoms  to  life  and  to  love. 

And  mighty  the  tones  which  the  firmament  rended, 

When  on  the  wheels  of  the  thunder,  and  wings  of  the  wind, 

By  lightning  and  hail,  and  thick  darkness  attended, 
He  uttered  on  Sinai  his  laws  to  mankind. 

And  sweet  was  the  voice  of  the  first-born  of  heaven, 
Though  poor  his  apparel,  though  earthly  his  form ; 

Who  said  to  the  mourner,  "  Thy  sins  are  forgiven," 
"  Be  whole"  to  the  sick,  and,  "  Be  still"  to  the  storm. 
34* 


402  REGINALD    HEBER. 


0  Judge  of  the  world  !  when  arrayed  in  thy  glory, 
Thy  summons  again  shall  be  heard  from  on  high, 

When  nature  stands  trembling  and  naked  before  Thee, 
And  waits  on  thy  sentence  to  live  or  to  die — 

When  the  heavens  shall  fly  fast  from  the  sound  of  thy  thunder, 
And  the  sun  in  thy  lightnings  grow  languid  and  pale, 

And  the  sea  yield  her  dead,  and  the  tomb  cleave  asunder, 
In  the  hour  of  thy  terrors,  let  mercy  prevail. 


HYMN     TO     THE     SEASONS. 

WHEN  Spring  unlocks  the  flowers,  to  paint  the  laughing  soil ; 
When  Summer's  balmy  showers  refresh  the  mower's  toil ; 
When  Winter  binds  in  frosty  chains  the  fallow  and  the  flood, 
In  God  the  earth  rejoiceth  still,  and  owns  his  Maker  good. 

The  birds  that  wake  the  morning,  and  those  that  love  the  shade ; 
The  winds  that  sweep  the  mountain,  or  lull  the  drowsy  glade ; 
The  sun  that  from  his  amber  bower  rejoiceth  on  his  way, 
The  moon,  and  stars,  their  Maker's  name  in  silent  pomp  display. 

Shall  man  the  lord  of  nature,  expectant  of  the  sky, — 

Shall  man  alone  unthankful,  his  little  praise  deny  ? 

No, — let  the  year  forsake  his  course,  the  seasons  cease  to  be, 

Thee,  Master,  must  we  always  love ;  and,  Saviour,  honor  Thee. 

The  flowers  of  Spring  may  wither, — the  hope  of  Summer  fade, — 
The  Autumn  droop  in  Winter, — the  birds  forsake  the  shade, — 
The  wind  be  lulled, — the  sun  and  moon  forget  their  old  decree, — 
But  we  in  nature's  latest  hour,  0  Lord !  will  cling  to  Thee. 


THE  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHRIST. 

THE  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain  : 

His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar : 
Who  follows  in  his  train  ? 


RER. 


Two! 

And 


Strom 


404  REGINALD    HEBER. 


Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse,  slowly,  slowly  bear  him  ; 

Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall ; 
Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  o'er  him, 

Widowed  and  childless,  she  has  lost  her  all. 

Why  pause  the  mourners,  who  forbids  our  weeping  ? 

Who  the  dark  pomp  of  sorrow  has  delayed  ? 
"  Set  down  the  bier — he  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ! 

Young  man,  arise  !"     He  spake,  and  was  obeyed  ! 

Change  then,  0  sad  one,  grief  to  exultation ; 

Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah's  knee. 
Strong  was  his  arm,  the  bringer  of  salvation  ! 

Strong  was  the  Word  of  God  to  succor  thee. 

EPIPHANY. 

BRIGHTEST  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning, 
Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine  aid  ; 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  Infant  Redeemer  is  laid. 

Cold  on  his  cradle  the  dewdrops  are  shining, 

Low  lies  his  bed  with  the  beasts  of  the  stall ; 

Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining — 

Maker,  and  Monarch,  and  Saviour  of  all. 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion,  * 
Odors  of  Edom,  and  offerings  divine ; 

Gems  of  the  mountain,  and  pearls  of  the  ocean  ; 

Myrrh  from  the  forest,  and  gold  from  the  mine  ? 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation, 

Vainly  with  gold  would  his  favor  secure  ; 

Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning, 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine  aid ; 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  Infant  Redeemer  is  laid. 


REGINALD    IIEBER.  405 


MISSIONS. 

FROM  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 
From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand  ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 
From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  land  from  error's  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle ; 
Though  every  prospect  pleases, 
And  only  man  is  vile : 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness, 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strown, 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 
Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Shall  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high  ; 
Shall  we,  to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation  !  oh,  salvation  ! 
The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 
Has  learned  Messiah's  name. 

Waft,  waft  ye  winds,  His  story, 
And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till,  like  a  sea  of  glory, 
It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole  : 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature, 
The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 
In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 


406  BERNARD    SARTON. 


BERNARD  BARTON, 

A  MEMBER  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  is  the  author  of  numerous  poems, 
marked  alike  by  sweetness  of  versification,  and  tender  and  Christian 
feeling.  A  collection  of  Bernard  Barton's  poems  has  recently  been 
published,  under  the  title  of  "  Household  Verses." 


HUMAN      LIFE. 

1  In  the  morning  it  flourisheth,  and  groweth  up  ;  in  the  evening  it  is  cut  down, 
and  withereth."— Ps.  xc.  6.  « 

I  WALKED  the  fields  at  morning's  prime, 
The  grass  was  ripe  for  mowing  ; 

The  skylark  sang  his  matin  chime, 
And  all  was  brightly  glowing. 

"  And  thus,"  I  cried,  "  the  ardent  boy, 
His  pulse  with  rapture  beating, 

Deems  life's  inheritance  is  joy — 
The  future  proudly  greeting." 

I  wandered  forth  at  noon  : — Alas  ! 

On  earth's  maternal  bosom 
The  scythe  had  left  the  withering  grass, 

And  stretched  the  fading  blossom. 

And  thus,  I  thought  with  many  a  sigh, 

The  hopes  we  fondly  cherish, 
Like  flowers  which  blossom  but  to  die, 

Seem  only  born  to  perish. 

Once  more,  at  eve,  abroad  I  strayed, 
Through  lonely  hay-fields  musing, 

While  every  breeze  that  round  me  played, 
Rich  fragrance  was  diffusing. 
35* 


BERNARD    BARTON.  407 


The  perfumed  air,  the  hush  of  eve, 

To  purer  hopes  appealing, 
O'er  thoughts  perchance  too  prone  to  grieve 

Scattered  the  balm  of  healing. 

For  thus  "  the  actions  of  the  just," 

When  memory  hath  enshrined  them, 

E'en  from  the  dark  and  silent  dust 
Their  odor  leave  behind  them. 

SPIRITUAL      WORSHIP. 

THOUGH  glorious,  0  God !  must  thy  temple  have  been, 

On  the  day  of  its  first  dedication, 
When  the  cherubim's  wings  widely  waving  were  seen 

On  high,  o'er  the  ark's  holy  station  ; 

When  even  the  chosen  of  Levi,  though  skilled 

To  minister  standing  before  Thee, 
Retired  from  the  cloud  which  the  temple  then  filled, 

And  thy  glory  made  Israel  adore  Thee  ; 

Though  awfully  grand  was  thy  majesty  then  ; 

Yet  the  worship  thy  Gospel  discloses, 
Less  splendid  in  pomp  to  the  vision  of  men, 

Far  surpasses  the  ritual  of  Moses. 

And  by  whom  was  that  ritual  forever  repealed 
But  by  Him,  unto  whom  it  was  given 

To  enter  the  Oracle,  where  is  revealed, 

Not  the  cloud,  but  the  brightness  of  heaven. 

Who,  having  once  entered,  Lath  shown  us  the  way, 
0  Lord  !  how  to  worship  before  Thee ; 

Not  with  shadowy  forms  of  that  earlier  day, 
But  in  spirit  and  truth  to  adore  Thee  ! 

This,  this  is  the  worship  the  Saviour  made  known, 

When  she  of  Samaria  found  him 
By  the  patriarch's  well  sitting  weary,  alone, 

With  the  stillness  of  noontide  around  Him. 


408  BERNARD    BARTON. 


How  sublime,  yet  how  simple,  the  homage  He  taught, 
To  her  who  inquired  by  that  fountain, 

If  Jehovah  at  Solyma's  shrine  would  be  sought, 
Or  adored  on  Samaria's  mountain ! 

"  Woman !  believe  me,  the  hour  is  near, 

When  He,  if  ye  rightly  would  hail  Him, 

Will  neither  be  worshipped  exclusively  here, 
Nor  yet  at  the  altar  of  Salem. 

"  For  God  is  a  spirit !  and  they  who  aright 

Would  perform  the  pure  worship  He  loveth, 

In  the  heart's  holy  temple  will  seek,  with  delight, 
That  spirit  the  Father  approveth." 


THE     POOL      OF      BETHESDA. 

AROUND  Bethesda's  healing  wave, 

Waiting  to  hear  the  rustling  wing 

Which  spoke  the  angel  nigh,  who  gave 
Its"  virtue  to  that  holy  spring, 

With  patience  and  with  hope  endued, 

Were  seen  the  gathered  multitude. 

Among  them  there  was  one  whose  eye 
Had  often  seen  the  waters  stirred ; 

Whose  heart  had  often  heaved  the  sigh, 
The  bitter  sigh  of  hope  deferred  : 

Beholding  while  he  suffered  on, 

The  healing  virtue  given, — and  gone ! 

No  power  had  he  ;  no  friendly  aid 

To  him  its  timely  succor  brought ; 

But,  while  his  coming  he  delayed, 

Another  won  the  boon  he  sought , — 

Until  the  Saviour's  love  was  shown, 

Which  healed  him  by  a  word  alone  ! 


BERNARD    BARTON.  409 


Had  they  who  watched  and  waited  there 
Been  conscious  who  was  passing  by, 

With  what  unceasing,  anxious  care, 

Would  they  have  sought  his  pitying  eye, 

And  craved  with  fervency  of  soul, 

His  power  divine  to  make  them  whole ! 

-  But  habit  and  tradition  swayed 

Their  minds  to  trust  to  sense  alone ; 

They  only  hoped  the  angel's  aid ; 

While  in  their  presence  stood  unknown 

A  greater,  mightier  far  than  he, 

With  power  from  every  pain  to  free. 

Bethesda's  pool  has  lost  its  power  ! 

No  angel,  by  his  glad  descent, 
Dispenses  that  diviner  dower 

Which  with  its  healing  waters  went, 
But  He,  whose  word  surpassed  its  wave. 
Is  still  Omnipotent  to  save. 

And  what  that  fountain  once  was  found, 
Religion's  outward  forms  remain — 

With  living  virtue  only  crowned 

While  their  first  freshness  they  retain  ; 

Only  replete  with  power  to  cure 

When,  spirit-stirred,  their  source  is  pure  ! 

Yet  are  there  who  this  truth  confess, 
Who  know  how  little  forms  avail, 

But  whose  protracted  helplessness 

Confirms  the  impotent's  sad  tale ; 

Who,  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

As  emblems  of  his  lot  appear. 

They  hear  the  sounds  of  life  and  love, 
Which  tell  the  visitant  is  nigh ; 

They  see  the  troubled  waters  move, 

Whose  touch  alone  might  health  supply  ; 
35 


410  BERNARD    BARTON. 


But  weak  of  faith,  infirm  of  will, 
Are  powerless,  helpless,  hopeless  still. 

Saviour !  thy  love  is  still  the  same 

As  when  that  healing  word  was  spoke  ; 

Still  in  thine  all-redeeming  name 

Dwells  power  to  burst  the  strongest  yoke. 

Oh  !  be  that  power,  that  love  displayed  ! 

Help  those,  whom  Thou  alone  canst  aid  ! 

TIME'S    TAKINGS    AND    LEAVINGS. 

WHAT  does  age  take  away  ? 
Bloom  from  the  cheek,  and  lustre  from  the  eye ; 

The  spirits  light  and  gay, 
Unclouded  as  the  summer's  bluest  sky. 

What  do  years  steal  away  ? 
The  fond  heart's  idol,  Love,  that  gladdened  life , 

Friendship,  whose  calmer  sway 
We  trusted  to  in  hours  of  darker  strife. 

What  must  with  Time  decay  ? 
Young  Hope's  wild  dreams,  and  Fancy's  visions  bright , 

Life's  evening  sky  grows  gray, 
And  darker  clouds  prelude  Death's  coming  night. 

But  not  for  such  we  mourn  ! 
We  know  them  frail,  and  brief  their  date  assigned  ; 

Our  spirits  are  forlorn, 
Less  from  Time's  thefts,  than  what  he  leaves  behind. 

What  do  years  leave  behind  ? 
Unruly  passions,  impotent  desires, 

Distrusts  and  thoughts  unkind, 
Love  of  the  world,  and  self — which  last  expires. 

For  these,  for  these  we  grieve  ; 
What  Time  has  robbed  us  of  we  know  must  go : 

But  what  he  deigns  to  leave, 
Not  only  finds  us  poor,  but  keeps  us  so. 


BERNARD  BARTON. 


411 


It  ought  not  thus  to  be ; 
"Ni  or  would  it,  knew  we  meek  Religion's  sway ; 

Her  votary's  eye  could  see 
How  little  Time  can  give,  or  take  awav. 

Faith,  in  the  heart  enshrined, 
Would  make  Time's  gifts  enjoyed  and  used,  while  lent ; 

And  all  it  left  behind, 
Of  Love  and  Grace,  a  noble  monument. 


POWER      AND      BENEVOLENCE. 

GOD  is  not  great  because  omnipotent ! 

But  because  power  in  Him  is  understood 
And  felt,  and  proved  to  be  benevolent, 

And  wise,  and  holy  ; — thus  it  ever  should  ! 

For  what  He  wills  we  know  is  pure  and  good, 
And  has  in  view  the  happiness  of  all : 

Hence  love  and  adoration  : — never  could 
The  contrite  spirit  at  his  footstool  fall, 
If  power,  and  power  alone,  its  feelings  did  appal ! 

If  then  divinest  power  be  truly  so, 

Because  its  proper  object  is  to  bless  ; 

It  follows,  that  all  power  which  man  can  know, 
The  highest  even  monarchs  can  possess, 
Displays  alone  their  "  less  than  littleness," 

Unless  it  seek  the  happiness  of  man 

And  glory  of  the  Highest ; — nothing  less 

Than  such  a  use  of  power  one  moment  can 

Make  its  possessor  great,  on  wisdom's  Godlike  plan. 


412  HENEY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

THIS  Christian  poet  was  born  at  Nottingham,  in  1785.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  a  hosier,  and  afterwards  articled  to  a  lawyer.  But 
neither  of  those  callings  was  congenial  to  his  feelings  and  talents  ; 
and,  by  the  kindness  of  some  friends,  he  was  enabled  to  enter  himself 
of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  to  study  for  the  Church.  Here  he 
obtained  several  prizes  at  the  public  examinations,  but  they  were  dearly 
purchased  ;  incessant  study  brought  him  to  the  grave,  in  1807,  in  the 
twenty-second  year  of  his  age.  The  writings  of  Kirke  White  show  that 
he  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  the  poetical  faculties,  and  his  reli- 
gious and  social  character  endeared  him  to  all  his  acquaintances.  His 
works,  with  the  interesting  memoir  of  his  life  and  genius  by  Dr.  Southey, 
have  passed  through  many  editions  in  this  country. 

THE    CHRISTIAN'S   PROGRESS. 

THROUGH  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  path, 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  King, 

Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 

There,  when  the  turmoil  is  no  more, 

And  all  our  powers  decay, 
Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 

Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 

Our  labors  done,  securely  laid 

In  this  our  last  retreat, 
Unheeded  o'er  our  silent  dust 

The  storms  of  life  shall  beat. 

Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane, 

The  vital  spark  shall  lie  ; 
For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  rise, 

To  see  its  kindred  sky. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  413 


These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust, 
Our  Father's  care  shall  keep, 

Till  the  last  angel  rise  and  break 
The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 

Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 

Shall  shed  its  mildest  rays, 
And  the  long  silent  dust  shall  burst 

With  shouts  of  endless  praise. 

HYMN. 

AWAKE,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake, 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesu's  sake ; 
We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
The  Lamb,  our  shield  and  hiding-place. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  for  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
Where,  where,  oh !  where,  shall  man  retire, 
T'  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 

Tis  He,  the  Lamb,  to  Him  we  fly, 
While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by ; 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face, 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding-place. 

Thus,  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene, 
The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen ; 
To  Him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 

While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race, 
We  deeply  need  a  hiding-place. 

Yet,  courage — days  and  years  will  glide, 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside ; 
Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood, 
And  washed  in  Jesu's  cleansing  blood. 
35* 


414  HENHY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed, 
We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed ; 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding-place. 

SONNET. 

WHAT  art  Thou,  mighty  One  ?  and  where  thy  seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands, 
And  Thou  dost  bear  within  thy  awful  hands 

The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet ; 

Stern  on  thy  dark- wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind 

Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dread  noon, 
Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon 

Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 

In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  Thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 

Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 

Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 

Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 

FAITH. 

Lo !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray, 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes ; 

And  from  his  tower  of  mist 

Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 

The  pious  man 

In  this  bad  world,  where  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veiled 
With  intervening  vapors ;  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkens  all ; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  concealed, 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  415 

LINES 
WRITTEN   ON  A  SURVEY  OF   THE   HEAVENS. 

YE  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  tread 

Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 

Of  night's  dominions  !  planets  and  central  orbs 

Of  other  systems,  big  as  the  burning  sun 

Which  lights  this  nether  globe,  yet  to  our  eye 

Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp  !  to  you  I  raise 

My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewildered, 

My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts, 

Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warped  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold, 

And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring, 

Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 

The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze, 

The  great  Creator;  Him,  who  now  sublime, 

Wrapped  in  the  solitary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres, 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne  and  meditates. 

Th'  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  heaven, 
Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 
Repeating  loud,  "  The  Lord  our  God  is  great," 
In  varied  harmonies  :  the  glorious  sounds 
Roll  o'er  the  air  serene.     Th'  ^Eolian  spheres, 
Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries, 
Catch  the  full  note  and  cry,  "  The  Lord  is  great !" 
Responding  to  the  seraphim.     O'er  all, 
From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne, 
Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh  !  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear, 
And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  me  smile 
On  the  vain  world  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 
Oh  !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height, 


416  11  EMI Y    KI11KE    WHITE. 


What  e'en  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds  !     Almighty  God  ! 
Thou,  the  dread  Author  of  these  wondrous  works, 
Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ?     Thou  canst ; 
For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud, 
The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour  ! 

Oh  !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gauds,  and  honors  of  the  world,  appear ! 
How  vain  ambition  !     Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Outwatched  the  slow-paced  night  ?     Why  on  the  page, 
The  schoolman's  labored  page,  have  I  employed 
The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  fame  repay 
The  loss  of  health  ?    Or  can  the  hope  of  glory 
Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye, 
Or  paint  new  colors  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 

Say,  foolish  one,  can  that  unbodied  fame, 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave — 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas  !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires  ! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !     Eternal  God, 
Guide  thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And,  oh  !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling.     All  but  this  is  folly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


JOHN  PIERPONT.  417 


JOHN  PIERPONT, 

THE  author  of  the  "  Airs  of  Palestine,"  is  a  native  of  Litclifield,  Con- 
necticut, and  was  born  on  the  sixth  of  April,  1785.  Having  embarked 
in  business  which  resulted  disastrously,  in  1816  he  sought  a  solace  in 
literary  pursuits,  and  in  the  same  year  published  "  The  Airs  of  Pales- 
tine." Soon  afterwards  he  entered  seriously  upon  the  study  of  theology, 
first  by  himself,  in  Baltimore,  and  afterwards  as  a  member  of  the  theo- 
logical school  connected  with  Harvard  College.  He  left  that  seminary 
in  October,  1818,  and  in  April,  1819,  was  ordained  as  minister  of  the 
Hollis-street  Unitarian  Church,  in  Boston,  as  successor  to  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Holley,  who  had  recently  been  elected  to  the  presidency  of  the 
Transylvania  University,  in  Kentucky.  In  1835  and  1836,  in  conse- 
quence of  impaired  health,  he  spent  a  year  abroad,  passing  through  the 
principal  cities  in  England,  France,  and  Italy,  and  extending  his  tour 
into  the  East,  visiting  Smyrna,  the  ruins  of  Ephesus,  in  Asia  Minor,  Con- 
stantinople, and  Athens,  Corinth,  and  some  of  the  other  cities  of  Greece  ; 
of  his  travels  in  which,  traces  will  occasionally  be  found  in  some  of  the 
short  poems  which  he  has  written  since  his  return.  Many  of  his 
hymns,  odes,  and  other  brief  poems,  are  remarkably  spirited  and  melo- 
dious. Several  of  them,  distinguished  alike  for  energy  of  thought  and 
language,  were  educed  by  events  connected  with  the  moral  and  reli- 
gious enterprises  of  the  time.  Mr.  Pierpont — now  sixty-three  years 
of  age — is  settled  in  Troy,  New  York. 


I  CANNOT  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I'm  stepping  towards  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 


418  JOHN    PIERPONT. 


I  thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair : 

And,  as  he's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy, 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though— he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ! — Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked  ; — he  is  not  there ! 


JOHN    PIERPONT.  419 


He  lives  ! — In  all  the  past 

He  lives ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  /" 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

FATHER,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is  there  ! 

HER     CHOSEN     SPOT. 

WHILE  yet  she  lived,  she  walked  alone 
Among  these  shades.     A  voice  divine 

Whispered,  "  This  spot  shall  be  thine  own ; 
Here  shall  thy  wasting  form  recline, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  this  pine." 

"  Thy  will  be  done  !"  the  sufferer  said. 

This  spot  was  hallowed  from  that  hour ; 
And,  in  her  eyes,  the  evening's  shade 
And  morning's  dew  this  green  spot  made 

More  lovely  than  her  bridal  bower. 

By  the  pale  moon — herself  more  pale 
And  spirit-like — these  walks  she  trod  ; 

And,  while  no  voice,  from  swell  or  vale, 
Was  heard,  she  knelt  upon  this  sod 
And  gave  her  spirit  back  to  God. 

That  spirit,  with  an  angel's  wings, 

Went  up  from  the  young  mother's  bed  : 

So,  heavenward,  soars  the  lark  and  sings. 

She's  lost  to  earth  and  earthly  things  ; 
But  "  weep  not,  for  she  is  not  dead, 


420  JOHN    PfERPONT. 


She  sleepeth  !"     Yea,  she  sleepeth  here, 
The  first  that  in  these  grounds  hath  slept. 

This  grave,  first  watered  with  the  tear 
That  child  or  widowed  man  hath  wept, 
Shall  be  by  heavenly  watchmen  kept. 

The  babe  that  lay  on  her  cold  breast — 

A  rosebud  dropped  on  drifted  snow — 
Its  young  hand  in  its  father's  pressed, 
Shall  learn  that  she,  who  first  caressed 
Its  infant  check,  now  sleeps  below. 

And  often  shall  he  come  alone, 

When  not  a  sound  but  evening's  sigh 
Is  heard,  and,  bowing  by  the  stone 
That  bears  his  mother's  name,  with  none 
But  God  and  guardian  angels  nigh, 

Shall  say,  "  This  was  my  mother's  choice 
For  her  own  grave :  0,  be  it  mine ! 

Even  now,  methinks,  I  hear  her  voice 
Calling  me  hence,  in  the  divine 
And  mournful  whisper  of  this  pine." 

JERUSALEM. 

JERUSALEM,  Jerusalem, 

How  glad  should  I  have  been, 
Could  I,  in  my  lone  wanderings, 

Thine  aged  walls  have  seen  ! — 
Could  I  have  gazed  upon  the  dome 

Above  thy  towers  that  swells, 
And  heard,  as  evening's  sun  went  down, 

Thy  parting  camels'  bells  : — 

Could  I  have  stood  on  Olivet, 
Where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 

And,  from  its  height,  looked  down  upon 
The  city  of  our  God  ; 


JOHN    PIERPONT.  421 


For  is  it  not,  Almighty  God, 

Thy  holy  city  still, — 
Though  there  thy  prophets  walk  no  more, — 

That  crowns  Moriah's  hill  ? 

Thy  prophets  walk  no  more,  indeed, 

The  streets  of  Salem  now, 
Nor  are  their  voices  lifted  up 

On  Zion's  saddened  brow  ; 
Nor  are  their  garnished  sepulchres 

With  pious  sorrow  kept, 
Where  once  the  same  Jerusalem, 

That  killed  them,  came  and  wept. 

But  still  the  seed  of  Abraham 

With  joy  upon  it  look, 
And  lay  their  ashes  at  its  feet, 

That  Kedron's  feeble  brook 
Still  washes,  as  its  waters  creep 

Along  their  rocky  bed, 
And  Israel's  God  is  worshipped  yet 

Where  Zion  lifts  her  head. 

Yes  ;  every  morning,  as  the  day 

Breaks  over  Olivet, 
The  holy  name  of  Allah  comes 

From  every  minaret ; 
At  every  eve  the  mellow  call 

Floats  on  the  quiet  air, 
"  Lo,  God  is  God  !     Before  him  come, 

Before  him  come,  for  prayer !" 

I  know,  when  at  that  solemn  call 

The  city  holds  her  breath, 
That  Omar's  mosque  hears  not  the  name 

Of  Him  of  Nazareth ; 
But  Abraham's  God  is  worshipped  there 

Alike  by  age  and  youth, 
And  worshipped, — hopeth  charity, — 

"  In  spirit  and  in  truth." 
36 


422  JOHN    PIERPONT. 


Yea,  from  that  day  when  Salem  knelt 

And  bent  her  queenly  neck 
To  him  who  was,  at  once,  her  priest 

And  king, — Melchisedek, 
To  this,  when  Egypt's  Abraham1 

The  sceptre  and  the  sword 
Shakes  o'er  her  head,  her  holy  men 

Have  bowed  before  the  Lord. 

Jerusalem,  I  would  have  seen 

Thy  precipices  steep, 
The  trees  of  palm  that  overhang 

Thy  gorges  dark  and  deep, 
The  goats  that  cling  along  thy  cliffs, 

And  browse  upon  thy  rocks, 
Beneath  whose  shade  lie  down,  alike, 

Thy  shepherds  and  their  flocks. 

I  would  have  mused,  while  night  hung  out 

Her  silver  lamp  so  pale, 
Beneath  those  ancient  olive-trees 

That  grow  in  Kedron's  vale, 
Whose  foliage  from  the  pilgrim  hides 

The  city's  wall  sublime, 
Whose  twisted  arms  and  gnarled  trunks 

Defy  the  scythe  of  time. 

The  garden  of  Gethsemane 

Those  aged  olive-trees 
Are  shading  yet,  and  in  their  shade 

I  would  have  sought  the  breeze, 
That,  like  an  angel,  bathed  the  brow, 

And  bore  to  heaven  the  prayer 
Of  Jesus,  when  in  agony, 

He  sought  the  Father  there. 

1  This  name  is  now  generally  written  Ibrahim. 


JOHN    PIERPONT.  423 


I  would  have  gone  to  Calvary, 

And,  where  the  Marys  stood, 
Bewailing  loud  the  Crucified, 

As  near  him  as  they  could, 
I  would  have  stood,  till  night  o'er  earth 

Her  heavy  pall  had  thrown, 
And  thought  upon  my  Saviour's  cross, 

And  learned  to  bear  my  own. 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem, 

Thy  cross  thou  bearest  now  ! 
An  iron  yoke  is  on  thy  neck, 

And  blood  is  on  thy  brow ; 
Thy  golden  crown,  the  crown  of  truth, 

Thou  didst  reject  as  dross, 
And  now  thy  cross  is  on  thee  laid — 

The  crescent  is  thy  cross ! 

It  was  not  mine,  nor  will  it  be, 

To  see  the  bloody  rod 
That  scourgeth  thee,  and  long  hath  scourged, 

Thou  city  of  our  God  ! 
But  round  thy  hill  the  spirits  throng 

Of  all  thy  murdered  seers, 
And  voices  that  went  up  from  it 

Are  ringing  in  my  ears, — 

Went  up  that  day,  when  darkness  fell 

From  all  thy  firmament, 
And  shrouded  thee  at  noon  ;  and  when 

Thy  temple's  vail  was  rent, 
And  graves  of  holy  men,  that  touched 

Thy  feet,  gave  up  their  dead : — 
Jerusalem,  thy  prayer  is  heard, 

His  blood  is  on  thy  head ! 


424  GEORGE    CROLY. 


GEORGE  CROLY. 

THE  Rev.  George  Croly,  LL.  D.,  eminent  as  a  theologian  and  as  a 
writer  in  various  departments  of  literature,  was  born  in  Ireland,  and 
educated  at  Trinity  College  in  Dublin.  He  is  now  rector  of  St.  Ste- 
phens, London.  His  collected  "  Poems"  were  published  in  two  octavo 
volumes  in  1830. 

THE      STARS. 

YE  stars  !  bright  legions  that,  before  all  time, — • 
Camped  on  yon  plain  of  sapphire,  what  shall  tell 
Your  burning  myriads,  but  the  eye  of  Him 
Who  bade  through  heaven  your  golden  chariots  wheel? 
Yet  who  earthborn  can  see  your  hosts,  nor  feel 
Immortal  impulses — Eternity  ? 
What  wonder  if  the  o'erwrought  soul  should  reel 
With  its  own  weight  of  thought,  and  the  wild  eye 
See  fate  within  your  tracts  of  sleepless  glory  lie  ? 

For  ye  behold  the  mightiest.     From  that  steep 
What  ages  have  ye  worshipped  round  your  Kino-  ? 
Ye  heard  his  trumpet  sounded  o'er  the  sleep 
Of  earth  ; — ye  heard  the  morning  angels  sing. 
Upon  that  orb,  now  o'er  me  quivering, 
The  gaze  of  Adam  fixed  from  Paradise  ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  deluge  saw  it  spring 
Above  the  mountain  surge,  and  hailed  its  rise 
Lightning  their  lonely  track  with  hope's  celestial  dyes. 

On  Calvary  shot  down  that  purple  eye, 
When,  but  the  soldier  and  the  sacrifice, 
All  were  departed. — Mount  of  Agony  ! 
But  Time's  broad  pinion,  ere  the  giant  dies, 
Shall  cloud  your  dome. — Ye  fruitage  of  the  skies, 
Your  vineyard  shall  be  shaken ! — From  your  urn 
Censers  of  Heaven  !  no  more  shall  glory  rise, 
Your  incense  to  the  Throne ! — The  heavens  shall  burn: 
For  all  your  pomps  are  dust,  and  shall  to  dust  return. 


GEORGE    CROLY.  425 


Yet  look,  ye  living  intellects. — The  trine 
Of  waning  planets,  speaks  it  not  decay  ? 
Does  Schedir's  staff  of  diamond  wave  no  sign  ? 
Monarch  of  midnight,  Sirius,  shoots  thy  ray 
Undimmed,  when  thrones  sublunar  pass  away  ? 
Dreams  ! — yet  if  e'er  was  graved  in  vigil  wan 
Your  spell  on  gem  or  imaged  alchemy, 
The  sign  when  empire's  hourglass  downwards  ran, 
'Twas  on  that  arch,  graved  on  that  brazen  talisman. 


JACOBS     DREAM. 
FROM   A  PICTURE   BY   WASHINGTON   ALLSTON,   A.    R.    A. 

THE  sun  was  sinking  on  the  mountain  zone 
That  guards  thy  vales  of  beauty,  Palestine  ! 
And  lovely  from  the  desert  rose  the  moon, 
Yet  lingering  on  the  horizon's  purple  line, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  o'er  its  earthly  shrine. 
Up  Padan-aram's  height  abrupt  and  bare 
A  pilgrim  toiled,  and  oft  on  day's  decline 
Looked  pale,  then  paused  for  eve's  delicious  air ; 
The  summit  gained,  he  knelt,  and  breathed  his  evening  prayer. 

He  spread  his  cloak  and  slumbered — darkness  fell 
Upon  the  twilight  hills  ;  a  sudden  sound 
Of  silver  trumpets  o'er  him  seemed  to  swell  ; 
Clouds  heavy  with  the  tempest  gathered  round ; 
Yet  was  the  whirlwind  in  its  caverns  bound  ; 
Still  deeper  rolled  the  darkness  from  on  high, 
Gigantic  volume  upon  volume  wound ; 
Above,  a  pillar  shooting  to  the  sky, 
Below,  a  mighty  sea,  that  spread  incessantly. 

Voices  are  heard — a  choir  of  golden  strings, 
Low  winds,  whose  breath  is  loaded  with  the  rose ; 
Then  chariot-wheels — the  nearer  rush  of  wings  ; 
Pale  lightning  round  the  dark  pavilion  glows, 
36* 


426  GEORGE    CROLY. 


It  thunders — the  resplendent  gates  unclose  ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance,  on  height  o'er  height, 
Rise  fiery  waving  wings,  and  star-crowned  brows, 
Millions  on  millions,  brighter  and  more  bright, 
Till  all  is  lost  in  one  supreme,  unmingled  light. 

But,  two  beside  the  sleeping  pilgrim  stand, 
Like  cherub  kings,  with  lifted,  mighty  plume, 
Fixed,  sunbright  eyes,  and  looks  of  high  command . 
They  tell  the  patriarch  of  his  glorious  doom  ; 
Father  of  countless  myriads  that  shall  come, 
Sweeping  the  land  like  billows  of  the  sea, 
Bright  as  the  stars  of  heaven  from  twilight's  gloom, 
Till  He  is  given  whom  angels  long  to  see, 
And  Israel's  splendid  line  is  crowned  with  Deity. 

A     DIRGE. 

"  EARTH  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold, 
Here  the  matron  and  the  maid, 
In  one  silent  bed  are  laid  : 
Here  the  vassal  and  the  king 
Side  by  side  lie  withering  ; 
Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 

Age  on  age  shall  roll  along, 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng : 
Those  that  wept  then,  those  that  weep, 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep ; 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm  : 
Summer's  sun,  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace,  or  battle's  roar, 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more ; 
Death  shall  keep  his  solemn  trust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 


GEORGE    CROLY.  427 


But  a  day  is  coming  fast, 

Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last ; 

It  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder, 

Heralded  by  trump  and  thunder  ; 

It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil, 

It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil, 

It  shall  come  in  empires'  groans, 

Burning  temples,  trampled  thrones  ; 

Then,  ambition,  rue  thy  lust ! 

"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign ; 
In  the  east  the  King  shall  shine  ; 
Flashing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousand  thousands  round  his  state  ; 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume  ; 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb  ! 
Heaven  shall  open  on  our  sight, 
Earth  be  turned  to  living  light, 
Kingdoms  of  the  ransomed  just — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 

Then  shall,  gorgeous  as  a  gem, 
Shine  thy  mount,  Jerusalem  ; 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  Paradise  ; 
Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God  ; 
Till  are  dried  the  martyr's  tears, 
Through  a  glorious  thousand  years. 
Now  in  hope  of  Him  we  trust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 


428  ANDREWS  NORTON. 


ANDREWS  NORTON. 

MR.  NORTON  was  born  at  Hingham,  near  Boston,  in  1786.  He 
entered  Harvard  College  in  1800,  and  was  graduated  in  1804.  He 
studied  divinity,  but  never  became  a  settled  clergyman.  He  was  for 
a  time  tutor  at  Bowdoin  College,  and  afterwards  tutor  and  librarian  in 
Harvard  University.  In  1819,  he  became  Dexter  Professor  of  Sacred 
Literature  in  the  latter  institution.  He  resigned  that  office  in  1830, 
and  has  since  resided  at  Cambridge  as  a  private  gentleman. 

Mr.  Norton  is  author  of  "  The  Evidences  of  the  Genuineness  of 
tLe  Gospels,"  published,  in  three  octavo  volumes,  in  1848  ;  and  of 
several  other  theological  works,  in  which  he  has  exhibited  great 
abilities.  His  poetical  writings  are  remarkable  for  elegance  and  a 
religious  dignity  and  fervor. 

AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  CHARLES  ELIOT. 

FAREWELL  !  before  we  meet  again, 

Perhaps  through  scenes  as  yet  unknown, 

That  lie  in  distant  years  of  pain, 
I  have  to  journey  on  alone  ; 

To  meet  with  griefs  thou  wilt  not  feel, 
Perchance  with  joys  thou  canst  not  share ; 

And  when  we  both  were  wont  to  kneel, 
To  breathe  alone  the  silent  prayer  ; 

But  ne'er  a  deeper  pang  to  know, 

Than  when  I  watched  thy  slow  decay, 

Saw  on  thy  cheek  the  hectic  glow, 
And  felt  at  last  each  hope  give  way. 

But  who  the  destined  hour  may  tell, 

That  bids  the  loosened  spirit  fly  ? 
E'en  now  this  pulse's  feverish  swell 

May  warn  me  of  mortality. 


ANDREWS  NORTON.  429 


But  chance  what  may,  thou  wilt  no  more 
With  sense  and  wit  my  hours  beguile, 

Inform  with  learning's  various  lore, 

Or  charm  with  friendship's  kindest  smile. 

Each  book  I  read,  each  walk  I  tread, 
Whate'er  I  feel,  whate'er  I  see, 

All  speak  of  hopes  forever  fled, 
All  have  some  tale  to  tell  of  thee. 

I  shall  not,  should  misfortune  lower, 
Should  friends  desert,  and  life  decline, 

I  shall  not  know  thy  soothing  power, 
Nor  hear  thee  say,  "  My  heart  is  thine." 

If  thou  hadst  lived,  thy  well-earned  fame 
Had  bade  my  fading  prospect  bloom, 

Had  cast  its  lustre  o'er  my  name, 
And  stood  the  guardian  of  my  tomb. 

Servant  of  God  !  thy  ardent  mind, 

With  lengthening  years  improving  still. 

Striving,  untired,  to  serve  mankind, 
Had  thus  performed  thy  Father's  will. 

Another  task  to  thee  was  given  ; 

'Twas  thine  to  drink  of  early  wo, 
To  feel  thy  hopes,  thy  friendships  riven, 

And  bend  submissive  to  thy  blow ; 

With  patient  smile  and  steady  eye, 
To  meet  each  pang  that  sickness  gave, 

And  see  with  lingering  step  draw  nigh 
The  form  that  pointed  to  the  grave. 

Servant  of  God  !  thou  art  not  there  ; 

Thy  race  of  virtue  is  not  run ; 
What  blooms  on  earth  of  good  and  fair, 

Will  ripen  in  another  sun. 


430  ANDREWS  NORTON. 


Dost  thou,  amid  the  rapturous  glow 

With  which  the  soul  her  welcome  hears, 

Dost  thou  still  think  of  us  below, 
Of  earthly  scenes,  of  human  tears  ? 

Perhaps  e'en  now  thy  thoughts  return 
To  when  in  summer's  moonlight  walk, 

Of  all  that  now  is  thine  to  learn, 

We  framed  no  light  nor  fruitless  talk. 

We  spake  of  knowledge,  such  as  soais 

From  world  to  world  with  ceaseless  flight ; 

And  love,  that  follows  and  adores, 
As  nature  spreads  before  her  sight. 

How  vivid  still  past  scenes  appear ! 

I  feel  as  though  all  were  not  o'er  ; 
As  though  'twere  strange  I  cannot  hear 
'Thy  voice  of  friendship  yet  once  more. 

But  I  shall  hear  it ;  in  that  day 

Whose  setting  sun  I  may  not  view, 

When  earthly  voices  die  away, 
Thine  will  at  last  be  heard  anew. 

We  meet  again ;  a  little  while, 
And  where  thou  art  I  too  shall  be. 

And  then,  with  what  an  angel  smile 
Of  gladness,  thou  wilt  welcome  me  ! 

HYMN. 

MY  God,  I  thank  thee  !  may  no  thought 
E'er  deem  thy  chastisements  severe  ; 

But  may  this  heart,  by  .sorrow  taught, 
Calm  each  wild  wish,  each  idle  fear. 

Thy  mercy  bids  all  nature  bloom  , 

The  sun  shines  bright,  and  man  is  gay ; 

Thine  equal  mercy  spreads  the  gloom 
That  darkens  o'er  his  little  day. 


ANDREWS  NORTON.  431 


Full  many  a  throb  of  grief  and  pain 
Thy  frail  and  erring  child  must  know ; 

But  not  one  prayer  is  breathed  in  vain, 
Nor  does  one  tear  unheeded  flow. 

Thy  various  messengers  employ ; 

Thy  purposes  of  love  fulfil ; 
And,  'mid  the  wreck  of  human  joy, 

May  kneeling  faith  adore  thy  will ! 

x 

FORTITUDE. 

FAINT  not,  poor  traveller,  though  thy  way 
Be  rough,  like  that  thy  Saviour  trod ; 

Though  cold  and  stormy  lower  the  day, 
This  path  of  suffering  leads  to  God. 

Nay,  sink  not ;  though  from  every  limb 
Are  starting  drops  of  toil  and  pain ; 

Thou  dost  but  share  the  lot  of  Him 
With  whom  his  followers  are  to  reign. 

Thy  friends  are  gone,  and  thou,  alone, 
Must  bear  the  sorrows  that  assail ; 

Look  upward  to  the  eternal  throne, 
And  know  a  Friend  who  cannot  fail. 

Bear  firmly ;  yet  a  few  more  days, 
And  thy  hard  trial  will  be  past ; 

Then,  wrapped  in  glory's  opening  blaze, 
Thy  feet  will  rest  on  heaven  at  last. 

Christian  !  thy  Friend,  thy  Master  prayed, 
When  dread  and  anguish  shook  his  frame ; 

Then  met  his  sufferings  undismayed  : 
Wilt  thou  not  strive  to  do  the  same  ? 

O  !  think'st  thou  that  his  Father's  love 
Shone  round  him  then  with  fainter  rays 

Than  now,  when,  throned  all  height  above, 
Unceasing  voices  hymn  his  praise  ? 


432  ANDREWS  NORTON. 


Go,  sufferer  !  calmly  meet  the  woes 

Which  God's  own  mercy  bids  thee  bear  ; 

Then,  rising  as  thy  Saviour  rose, 
Go !  his  eternal  victory  share. 

'FUNERAL    HYMN. 

» 

HE  has  gone  to  his  God ;  he  has  gone  to  his  home  ; 
No  more  amid  peril  and  error  to  roam ; 
His  eyes  are  no  longer  dim  ; 

His  feet  will  no  more  falter ; 
No  grief  can  follow  him ; 
No  pang  his  cheek  can  alter. 

There  are  paleness,  and  weeping,  and  sighs  below ; 
For  our  faith  is  faint,  and  our  tears  will  flow ; 
But  the  harps  of  heaven  are  ringing  ; 

Glad  angels  come  to  greet  him, 
And  hymns  of  joy  are  singing, 

While  old  friends  press  to  meet  him. 

0 !  honored,  beloved,  to  earth  unconfined, 
Thou  hast  soared  on  high,  thou  hast  left  us  behind. 
But  our  parting  is  not  forever, 

We  will  follow  thee  by  heaven's  light, 
Where  the  grave  cannot  dissever 
The  souls  whom  God  will  unite. 


Pira: 


434  RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


THE      OCEAN. 

Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

Ho  !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath  ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark  !  hear  him  !  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again,  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite  !  I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  .upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it's  pain 
To  think  ;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  0  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me.    For  countless  years  thou  hast  rolled 
Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn  ; 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 
At  last  thou  didst  it  well !     The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept'st  to  death  the  breathing  land ; 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  though  the  land  is  thronged  again,  0  Sea  ! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit :  it  is  sadness  all ! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  cliff — he  with  the  iron  crown  ! 


RICHARD    H.    DANA.  435 


And  see  ;  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep, 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep  ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge. 


DAYBREAK. 

"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window  opened  to- 
wards the  sun-rising  :  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace  ;  where  he  slept  till 
break  of  day,  and  then  he  awoke  and  sang." — The  Pilgrv-*  s  Progress. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host  that  all  night  long, 
In  fiery  armor,  far  up  in  the  sky 
Stood  watch,  thou  com'st  to  wait  the  morning's  song, 
Thou  com'st  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh, 
Star  of  the  dawning  !     Cheerful  is  thine  eye  ; 
And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 
Thou  seem'st  to  look  on  me,  as  asking  why 
My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim ; 
Thou  bidd'st  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

Canst  thou  grow  sad,  thou  say'st,  as  earth  grows  bright  ? 
And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse 
In  quick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  from  out  the  day's  fresh  source  ? 
With  creatures  innocent  thou  must  perforce 
A  sharer  be,  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 
And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 
Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 
And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  endure. 

I  feel  its  calm.     But  there's  a  sombrous  hue, 
Edging  that  eastern  cloud,  of  deep,  dull  red ; 
Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew ; 
And  all  the  woods  and  hilltops  stand  outspread 
With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 
Still — save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song — 
The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead — 
The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 
And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate,  and  wrong. 


436  RICHARD     ».     DANA. 


But  wrong-,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth, 
Will  quicken  soon ;  and  hard,  hot  toil,  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scattered  beauties  nature's  rife  ; 
And  airs  and  woods  and  streams  breathe  harmonies . 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife  ; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  Avith  soft  and  kindly  ties  : — 
He,  feArerish,  blinded,  lives,  and,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

It  is  because  man  useth  so  amiss 
Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad  ; 
Else  why  should  she  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this 
Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 
From  her  fair  face  ? — It  is  that  man  is  mad  ! 
Then  chide  me  not,  clear  star,  that  I  repine 
When  nature  grieves  ;  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 
Thou  look'st  towards  earth ;  but  yet  the  heavens  are  thine ; 
While  I  to  earth  am  bound : — When  will  the  heaArens  be  mine  *? 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 
And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things  ;  could  nature's  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful,  then,  with  soul  intense 
I  should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 
But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bowed, 
Remembering  humbly  Avhy  it  is,  and  Avhence  : 
But  when  I  see  cold  man  of  reason  proud, 
My  solitude  is  sad — I'm  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 
Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 
Nor  for  this  solemn  hour  :  fresh  life  is  near  ; — 
But  all  my  joys  ! — they  died  Avhen  neAvly  born. 
Thousands  will  wake  to  joy  ;  while  I,  forlorn, 
And  like  the  stricken  deer,  with  sickly  eye 
Shall  see  them  pass.     Breathe  calm — my  spirit's  torn ; 
Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high  ! — 
Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring  nigh. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA.  437 


And  when  I  grieve,  0,  rather  let  it  be 
That  I — whom  nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea — 
Who,  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters — feel  the  quickening  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit ; — who,  as  my  own  child, 
Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A  beauty  see — that  I  this  mother  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce  and  wild  ! 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 
Shot  'thwart  the  earth  !    In  crown  of  living  fire 
Up  comes  the  day !    As  if  they  conscious  quaffed — 
The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city  spire 
Laugh  in  the  wakening  light. — Go,  vain  desire  ! 
The  dusky  lights  are  gone  ;  go  thou  thy  way  ! 
And  pming  discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 
Be  called  my  chamber,  Peace,  when  ends  the  day ; 
And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  Pilgrim,  sing  and  pray. 

INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY. 

0  LISTEN,  man! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ! 
Thick,  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
— 0,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits  !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  !     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories  ;  night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears ; 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast,  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
37* 


438 


JRICHARD    H.    DANA. 


By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee  : 
— The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

THE    LITTLE    BEACH-BIRD. 

THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
0  !  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us  :  Thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad :  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 

The  Mystery — the  Word. 

Of  thousands,  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  ocean,  art !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells — 
Tells  of  man's  wo  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 

Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light 

Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


WILLIAM    KNOX.  439 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 

WILLIAM  KNOX,  the  author  of  "  Songs  of  Israel,"  and  "  The  Harp 
of  Sion,"  was  born  in  humble  life  In  Roxburghshire,  in  1789,  and  died 
in  Edinburgh  in  1825.  Some  of  his  pieces  evince  fancy  and  feeling, 
and  a  fine  command  of  poetical  language. 

MORTALITY. 

OH,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ! 
Like  a  fast  flitting  meteor,  a  fast  flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave — 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willows  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust,  and  together  shall  He. 

The  child  whom  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed, 
Each — all  are  away  to  their  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of -the  king  who  the  sceptre  hath  borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest  who  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap, 
The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  to  the  steep, 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 


440  WILLIAM    KNOX. 


The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes — like  the  flower  and  the  weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed  ; 
So  the  multitude  comes — even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  that  our  fathers  have  been, 
We  see  the  same  sights,  that  our  fathers  have  seen ; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the  same  sun, 
And  we  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would  think, 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from,  they  too  would 

shrink, 

To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too  would  cling, 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved — but  their  story  we  cannot  unfold, 
They  scorned — but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold, 
They  grieved — but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  may  come, 
They  joyed — but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died — ay,  they  died  !  and  we  things  that  are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea ;  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure  and  pain, 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and  rain ; 
And  the  smile,  and  the  tear,  and  the  song,  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  twink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud — 
Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud ! 


WILLIAM    KNOX.  441 


YOUTH      AND      AGE. 

OH  !  Youth  is  like  the  springtide  morn, 

When  roses  bloom  on  Jordan's  strand, 
And  far  the  turtle's  voice  is  borne 

Through  all  Judea's  echoing  land  ! 
When  the  delighted  wanderer  roves 
Through  cedar  woods  and  olive  groves, 

That  spread  their  blossoms  to  the  day  ; 
And  climbs  the  hill,  and  fords  the  stream, 
And  basks  him  in  the  noontide  beam, 

"  Oh  !  I  would  live  alway." 

But  Age  is  like  the  winter's  night, 

When  Hermon  wears  his  mantle  cloud, 
When  moon  and  stars  withdraw  their  light, 

And  Hinnom's  blast  is  long  and  loud  ; 
When  the  dejected  pilgrim  strays 
Along  the  desert's  trackless  maze, 

Forsaken  by  each  friendly  ray ; 
And  feels  no  vigor  in  his  limb, 
And  finds  no  home  or  earth  for  him, 
And  cries,  amid  the  shadows  dim, 

"  I  would  not  live  alway." 

Oh  !  Youth  is  firmly  bound  to  earth, 

When  hope  beams  on  each  comrade's  glance 
His  bosom  chords  are  tuned  to  mirth, 

Like  harp-strings  in  the  cheerful  dance  ; 
But  Age  has  felt  those  ties  unbound, 
Which  fixed  him  to  that  spot  of  ground 

Where  all  his  household  comforts  lay  ; 
He  feels  his  freezing  heart  grow  cold, 
He  thinks  of  kindred  in  the  mould, 
And  cries,  amid  his  grief  untold, 

"  I  would  not  live  alway." 


442  WILLIAM    KNOX. 


THE      ATHEIST. 

THE  fool  hath  said,  "  There  is  no  God  :" 

No  God  ! — Who  lights  the  morning  sun, 
And  sends  him  on  his  heavenly  road, 

A  far  and  brilliant  course  to  run  ? 

Who,  when  the  radiant  day  is  done, 
Hangs  forth  the  moon's  nocturnal  lamp, 

And  bids  the  planets,  one  by  one, 
Steal  o'er  the  night-vales,  dark  and  damp  ? 

No  God  ! — Who  gives  the  evening  dew, 

The  fanning  breeze,  the  fostering  shower  ? 
Who  warms  the  spring-morn's  budding  bough, 

And  paints  the  summer's  noontide  flower  ? 

Who  spreads  in  the  autumnal  bower, 
The  fruit-tree's  mellow  stores  around ; 

And  sends  the  winter's  icy  power, 
T'  invigorate  the  exhausted  ground  ? 

No  God ! — Who  makes  the  bird  to  wing 

Its  flight  like  arrow  through  the  sky, 
And  gives  the  deer  its  power  to  spring 

From  rock  to  rock  triumphantly  ? 

Who  formed  Behemoth,  huge  and  high, 
That  at  a  draught  the  river  drains, 

And  great  Leviathan  to  lie, 
Like  floating  isle,  on  ocean  plains  ? 

No  God  ! — Who  warms  the  heart  to  heave 
With  thousand  feelings  soft  and  sweet, 

And  prompts  the  aspiring  soul  to  leave 
The  earth  we  tread  beneath  our  feet, 
And  soar  away  on  pinions  fleet, 

Beyond  the  scene  of  mortal  strife, 

With  fair  ethereal  forms  to  meet, 

That  tell  us  of  an  after  life  ? 


WILLIAM    KNOX.  443 


No  God ! — Who  fixed  the  solid  ground 

On  pillars  strong,  that  alter  not  ? 
Who  spread  the  curtained  skies  around  ? 

Who  doth  the  ocean  bounds  allot  ? 

Who  all  things  to  perfection  brought 
On  earth  below,  in  heaven  abroad  ? — 

Go  ask  the  fool  of  impious  thought 
That  dares  to  say, — "  There  is  no  God  !" 

TO-MORROW. 

TO-MORROW  ! — Mortal,  boast  not  thou 
Of  time  and  tide  that  are  not  now ! 
But  think,  in  one  revolving  day, 
How  earthly  things  may  pass  away ! 

To-day — while  hearts  with  rapture  spring, 
The  youth  to  beauty's  lip  may  cling ; 
To-morrow — and  that  lip  of  bliss 
May  sleep  unconscious  of  his  kiss. 

To-day — the  blooming  spouse  may  press 
Her  husband  in  a  fond  caress  ; 
To-morrow — and  the  hands  that  pressed, 
May  wildly  strike  her  widowed  breast. 

To-day — the  clasping  babe  may  drain 
The  milk-stream  from  its  mother's  vein ; 
To-morrow — like  a  frozen  rill, 
That  bosom-current  may  be  still. 

To-day — the  merry  heart  may  feast 
On  herb  and  fruit,  and  bird  and  beast ; 
To-morrow — spite  of  all  thy  glee, 
The  hungry  worms  may  feast  on  thee. 

To-morrow  ! — Mortal,  boast  not  thou 
Of  time  and  tide  that  are  not  now  ! 
But  think,  in  one  revolving  day, 
That  e'en  thyself  may  pass  away. 


444  JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 

THIS  poet  was  born  of  a  family  distinguished  in  the  history  of  Con- 
necticut, at  New  Haven,  on  the  26th  of  September,  1789.  He  gradu- 
ated at  Yale  College,  with  a  high  reputation  for  abilities  and  scholar- 
ship, in  1808,  and  afterwards  entered  upon  the  business  of  a  merchant. 
His  principal  works  are  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment,"  published  in 
1812  ;  "  Percy's  Mosque,"  published  originally  while  he  was  on  a 
visit  to  England,  in  1820;  "  Hadad,"  which  appeared  in  1825,  and 
"  Demetria,"  written  in  1816,  but  not  printed  until  it  was  included  in 
the  collection  of  his  works  which  he  gave  to  the  world  in  1840,  a  few 
months  before  his  death.  As  a  poet,  Mr.  Hillhouse  possessed  qualities 
seldom  found  united  :  a  masculine  strength  of  mind,  and  a  most  deli- 
cate perception  of  the  beautiful.  With  an  imagination  of  the  loftiest 
order — with  "  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine"  in  its  fullest  exercise, 
the  wanderings  of  his  fancy  were  chastened  and  controlled  by  ex- 
quisite taste.  The  grand  characteristic  of  his  writings  is  their  classical 
beauty.  Every  passage  is  polished  to  the  utmost,  yet  there  is  no  ex- 
uberance, no  sacrifice  to  false  and  meretricious  taste.  He  threw  aside 
the  gaudy  and  affected  brilliancy  with  which  too  many  set  forth  their 
poems,  and  left  his  to  stand,  like  the  doric  column,  charming  by  its 
simplicity. 

CLOSE    OF    THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 

As,  when  from  some  proud  capital  that  crowns 
Imperial  Ganges,  the  reviving  breeze 
Sweeps  the  dank  mist,  or  hoary  river  fog 
Impervious  mantled  o'er  her  highest  towers, 
Bright  on  the  eye  rush  Brahma's  temples,  capped 
With  spiry  tops,  gay-trellised  minarets, 
Pagods  of  gold,  and  mosques  with  burnished  domes, 
Gilded,  and  glistening  in  the  morning  sun ; 
So  from  the  hill  the  cloudy  curtains  rolled, 
And,  in  the  lingering  lustre  of  the  eve, 
Again  the  Saviour  and  his  seraphs  shone. 
Emitted  sudden  in  his  rising,  flashed 


JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE.  445 


Intenser  light,  as  towards  the  right-hand  host 

Mild  turning,  with  a  look  ineffable, 

The  invitation  he  proclaimed  in  accents 

Which  on  their  ravished  ears  poured  thrilling,  like 

The  silver  sound  of  many  trumpets  heard 

Afar  in  sweetest  jubilee  ;  then,  swift 

Stretching  his  dreadful  sceptre  to  the  left, 

That  shot  forth  horrid  lightnings,  in  a  voice 

Clothed  but  in  half  its  terrors,  yet  to  them 

Seemed  like  the  crush  of  heaven,  pronounced  the  doom. 

The  sentence  uttered,  as  with  life  instinct, 

The  throne  uprose  majestically  slow; 

Each  angel  spread  his  wings ;  in  one  dread  swell 

Of  triumph  mingling  as  they  mounted,  trumpets, 

And  harps,  and  golden  lyres,  and  timbrels  sweet, 

And  many  a  strange  and  deep-toned  instrument 

Of  heavenly  minstrelsy  unknown  on  earth, 

And  angels'  voices,  and  the  loud  acclaim 

Of  all  the  ransomed,  like  a  thunder-shout. 

Far  through  the  skies  melodious  echoes  rolled, 

And  faint  hosannas  distant  climes  returned. 

Down  from  the  lessening  multitude  came  faint 
And  fainter  still  the  trumpet's  dying  peal, 
All  else  in  distance  lost ;  when,  to  receive 
Their  new  inhabitants,  the  heavens  unfolded. 
Up  gazing,  then,  with  streaming  eyes,  a  glimpse 
The  wicked  caught  of  Paradise,  whence  streaks 
Of  splendor,  golden  quivering  radiance  shone, 
As  when  the  showery  evening  sun  takes  leave, 
Breaking  a  moment  o'er  the  illumined  world. 
Seen  far  within,  fair  forms  moved  graceful  by, 
Slow-turning  to  the  light  their  snowy  wings. 
A  deep-drawn,  agonizing  groan  escaped 
The  hapless  outcasts,  when  upon  the  Lord 
The  glowing  portals  closed.     Undone,  they  stood 
Wistfully  gazing  on  the  cold,  gray  heaven, 
As  if  to  catch,  alas !  a  hope  not  there. 
But  shades  began  to  gather ;  night  approached 
38 


446  JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 


Murky  and  lowering :  round  with  horror  rolled  " 
On  one  another,  their  despairing  eyes 
That  glared  with  anguish  :  starless,  hopeless  gloom 
Fell  on  their  souls,  never  to  know  an  end. 
Though  in  the  far  horizon  lingered  yet 
A  lurid  gleam,  black  clouds  were  mustering  there ; 
Red  flashes,  followed  by  low  muttering  sounds, 
Announced  the  fiery  tempest  doomed  to  hurl 
The  fragments  of  the  earth  again  to  chaos. 
Wild  gusts  swept  by,  upon  whose  hollow  wing 
Unearthly  voices,  yells,  and  ghastly  peals 
Of  demon  laughter  came.     Infernal  shapes 
Flitted  along  the  sulphurous  wreaths,  or  plunged 
Their  dark,  impure  abyss,  as  seafowl  dive 
Their  watery  element. — O'erwhelmed  with  sights 
And  sounds  appalling,  I  awoke ;  and  found 
For  gathering  storms,  and  signs  of  coming  wo, 
The  midnight  moon  gleaming  upon  my  bed 
Serene  and  peaceful.     Gladly  I  surveyed  her 
Walking  in  brightness  through  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  blessed  the  respite  ere  the  day  of  doom. 


HADAD'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  CITY  OF  JERUSALEM 

'Tis  so  ; — the  hoary  harper  sings  aright ; 
How  beautiful  is  Zion ! — Like  a  queen, 
Armed  with  a  helm,  in  virgin  loveliness, 
Her  heaving  bosom  in  a  bossy  cuiras, 
She  sits  aloft,  begirt  with  battlements 
And  bulwarks  swelling  from  the  rock,  to  guard 
The  sacred  courts,  pavilions,  palaces, 
Soft  gleaming  through  the  umbrage  of  the  woods 
Which  tuft  her  summit,  and,  like  raven  tresses, 
Waved  their  dark  beauty  round  the  tower  of  David, 
Resplendent  with  a  thousand  golden  bucklers, 
The  embrasures  of  alabaster  shine ; 
Hailed  by  the  pilgrims  of  the  desert,  bound 
To  Judah's  mart  with  orient  merchandise. 


JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE.  447 

But  not,  for  thou  art  fair  and  turret-crowned, 
Wet  with  the  choicest  dew  of  heaven,  and  blessed 
With  golden  fruits,  and  gales  of  frankincense, 
Dwell  I  beneath  thine  ample  curtains.     Here, 
Where  saints  and  prophets  teach,  where  the  stern  law 
Still  speaks  in  thunder,  where  chief  angels  watch, 
And  where  the  glory  hovers,  here  I  war. 


EVENING    MUSIC    OF    THE    ANGELS. 

Low  warblings,  now,  and  solitary  harps, 
Were  heard  among  the  angels,  touched  and  tuned 
As  to  an  evening  hymn,  preluding  soft 
To  cherub  voices  ;  louder  as  they  swelled, 
Deep  strings  struck  in,  and  hoarser  instruments, 
Mixed  with  clear,  silver  sounds,  till  concord  rose 
Full  as  the  harmony  of  winds  to  heaven  ; 
Yet  sweet  as  nature's  springtide  melodies 
To  some  worn  pilgrim,  first  with  glistening  eyes 
Greeting  his  native  valley,  whence  the  sounds 
Of  rural  gladness,  herds,  and  bleating  flocks, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  blithe  voices,  lowing  kine, 
The  dash  of  waters,  reed,  or  rustic  pipe, 
Blent  with  the  dulcet,  distance-mellowed  bell, 
Come,  like  the  echo  of  his  early  joys. 
In  every  pause,  from  spirits  in  mid  air, 
Responsive  still  were  golden  viols  heard, 
And  heavenly  symphonies  stole  faintly  down. 


448  HENRY  II ATI T  MILMAN, 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 

HENRY  HART  MILMAN  was  born  in  London  on  the  10th  of  February, 
1791,  and  was  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Francis  Milman,  physician  to 
the  king.  In  1801  he  was  sent  to  Eton,  and  in  1810  he  entered  Bra- 
zen Nose  College,  Oxford,  where  he  gained  the  first  honors  in  exam- 
inations, and  received  many  prizes  for  English  and  Latin  poems  and 
essays.  In  1815  he  became  a  fellow  of  his  college,  and  two  years  af- 
terwards entered  into  holy  orders.  The  living  of  St.  Mary's,  in  Read- 
ing, was  bestowed  upon  him  in  1817,  and  he  devoted  much  of  his  at- 
tention to  the  duties  of  his  profession,  until  he  was  elected  Professor 
of  Poetry  at  Oxford,  in  1821.  Mr.  Milman  commenced  his  course  as 
a  poet  with  the  "  Judicium  Regale,"  in  which  the  people  of  the  differ- 
ent nations  of  Europe  pronounce  their  judgment  against  Napoleon. 
This  was  followed  by  the  tragedy  of  "  Fazio,"  and  "  The  Fall  of  Jeru- 
salem." His  "Martyr  of  Antioch,"  published  in  1822,  is  an  attempt 
to  present  in  contrast  the  simple  faith  of  Jesus  and  the  most  gorgeous, 
yet  most  natural  of  pagan  superstitions,  the  worship  of  the  sun.  Be- 
sides his  dramatic  works,  Mr.  Milman  is  the  author  of  "  Samor,  the 
Lord  of  the  Bright  City,"  an  epic  in  twelve  books ;  and  a  volume  of 
minor  poems,  none  of  which  are  equal  to  passages  in  his  tragedies 
He  now  resides  in  London,  and  is  prebendary  of  St.  Peter's,  and  min- 
ister of  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster. 


BROTHER,  thou  art  gone  before  us, 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye, 

And  sorrow  is  unknown  : 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh, 

And  from  care  and  fear  released, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou'st  travelled  o'er, 
And  borne  the  heavy  load, 

But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  languid  feet 
To  reach  his  blest  abode  ; 


MENRV   HART  MILMAN.  .  449 


Thou'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus, 

Upon  his  Father's  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now, 

Nor  doubt  thy  faith  assail, 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 

And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail : 
And  there  thou'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 

Whom  on  earth  thou  lovedst  best, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

"  Earth  to  earth,"  and  "  dust  to  dust," 

The  solemn  priest  hath  said, 
So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 

And  we  seal  thy  narrow  bed  : 
But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 

Among  the  faithful  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


HYMN     TO     THE     SAVIOUR. 

FOR  thou  wert  born  of  woman,  Thou  didst  come, 
0  Holiest !  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 
Not  in  thy  dread  omnipotent  array  ; 

And  not  by  thunders  strewed, 

Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 
Nor  indignation  burned  before  Thee  on  thy  way. 

But  Thee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 

Thy  mother,  undefiled, 

In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest, 

From  off  her  virgin  breast. 

The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air  ! 
38* 


i50  HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


Nor  stooped  their  lamps  th'  enthroned  fires  on  high ; 

A  single  silent  star 

Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  unchecked  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky ; 

The  Eastern  Sages  leading  on, 

As  at  a  kingly  throne, 

To  lay  their  gold  and  odors  sweet 

Before  thy  infant  feet. 

The  earth  and  ocean  were  not  hushed  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere  ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 

From  all  the  cherub-choirs, 

And  seraphs'  burning  lyres, 

Poured  through  the  host  of  heaven  the  charmed  clouds 
along  ; 

One  angel-troop  the  strain  began. 

Of  all  the  race  of  man 

By  simple  shepherds  heard  alone 

That  soft  Hosanna's  tone. 

And  when  Thou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  Thee  hence  in  lambent  radiance  came ; 
Nor  visible  angels  mourned  with  drooping  plumes ; 

Nor  didst  Thou  mount  on  high, 

From  fatal  Calvary, 

With  all  thine  own  redeemed  out-bursting  from  their 
tombs. 

For  Thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 

But  one  of  human  birth, 

The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 

In  Paradise  with  Thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brake  ; 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done ; 

A  few  dim  hours  of  day 

The  world  in  darkness  lay, 
Then  basked  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloudless  sun : 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN.  451 


While  Thou  didst  sleep  within  the  tomb, 
Consenting  to  thy  doom, 
Ere  yet  the  white-robed  angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 

And  when  Thou  didst  arise,  Thou  didst  not  stand 
With  devastation  hi  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murtherous  crew ; 

But  Thou  didst  haste  to  meet 

Thy  mother's  coming  feet, 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few 

Then  calmly,  slowly  didst  Thou  rise 

Into  thy  native  skies ; 

Thy  human  form  dissolved  on  high 

In  its  own  radiancy. 

THE      CRUCIFIXION. 

BOUND  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Faint  and  bleeding,  who  is  He  ? 
By  the  eyes  so  pale  and  dim, 
Streaming  blood  and  writhing  limb, 
By  the  flesh  with  scourges  torn, 
By  the  crown  of  twisted  thorn, 
By  the  side  so  deeply  pierced, 
By  the  baffled  burning  thirst, 
By  the  drooping  death-dewed  brow, 
Son  of  Man !  'tis  Thou !  'tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He  ? 
By  the  sun  at  noonday  pale, 
Shivering  rocks,  and  rending  veil, 
By  earth  that  trembled  at  His  doom, 
By  yonder  saints  who  burst  their  tomb, 
By  Eden,  promised  ere  He  died 
To  the  felon  at  his  side ; 
Lord  !  our  suppliant  knees  we  bow  ! 
Son  of  God  !  'tis  Thou !  'tis  Thou ! 


152  HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Sad  and  dying,  who  is  He  ? 
By  the  last  and  bitter  cry, 
The  ghost  given  up  in  agony ; 
By  the  lifeless  body  laid 
In  the  chambers  of  the  dead  ; 
By  the  mourners  come  to  weep 
Where  the  bones  of  Jesus  sleep  : 
Crucified  !  we  know  Thee  now ; 
Son  of  Man  !  'tis  Thou  !  'tis  Thou  ! 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 

Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He  ? 

By  the  prayer  for  them  that  slew, 

"  Lord  !  they  know  not  what  they  do  !" 

By  the  spoiled  and  empty  grave, 

By  the  souls  He  died  to  save, 

By  the  conquest  He  hath  won, 

By  the  saints  before  His  throne, 

By  the  rainbow  round  His  brow, 

Son  of  God  !  'tis  Thou !  'tis  Thou ! 

• 

THE     JUDGMENT. 

THE  chariot !  the  chariot !  its  wheels  roll  on  fire, 

As  the  Lord  cometh  down  in  the  pomp  of  his  ire : 

Self -moving,  it  drives  on  its  pathway  of  cloud, 

And  the  heavens  with  the  burden  of  Godhead  are  bo  wed , 

The  glory  !  the  glory !  by  myriads  are  poured 
The  hosts  of  the  angels  to  wait  on  their  Lord ; 
And  the  glorified  saints  and  the  martyrs  are  there, 
And  all  who  the  palm-wreath  of  victory  wear  ! 

The  trumpet !  the  trumpet !  the  dead  have  all  heard  : 
So  the  depths  of  the  stone-covered  charnel  are  stirred : 
From  the  sea,  from  the  land,  from  the  south  and  the  north, 
*The  vast  generations  of  man  are  come  forth. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN.  453 

The  judgment !  the  judgment !  the  thrones  are  all  set, 
Where  the  Lamb  and  the  white-vested  Elders  are  met! 
All  flesh  is  at  once  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
And  the  doom  of  eternity  hangs  on  his  word  ! 

0  Mercy  !  0  Mercy  !  look  down  from  above, 
Creator  !  on  us,  thy  sad  children,  with  love  ! 
When  beneath,  to  their  darkness  the  wicked  are  driven, 
May  our  sanctified  souls  find  a  mansion  in  heaven  ! 


'THE    MERRY   HEART. 

I  WOULD  not  from  the  wise  require 

The  lumber  of  their  learned  lore ; 
Nor  would  I  from  the  rich  desire 

A  single  counter  of  their  store. 
For  I  have  ease,  and  I  have  wealth, 

And  I  have  spirits  light  as  air  ; 
And  more  than  wisdom,  more  than  wealth, — 

A  merry  heart  that  laughs  at  care. 

At  once,  'tis  true,  two  witching  eyes 

Surprised  me  in  a  luckless  season, 
Turned  all  my  mirth  to  lonely  sighs, 

And  quite  subdued  my  better  reason. 
Yet  'twas  but  love  could  make  me  grieve, 

And  love  you  know's  a  reason  fair, 
And  much  improved,  as  I  believe, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laughed  at  care. 

So  now,  from  idle  wishes  clear, 

I  make  the  good  I  may  not  find ; 
Adown  the  stream  I  gently  steer, 

And  shift  my  sail  with  every  wind. 
And  half  by  nature,  half  by  reason, 

Can  still  with  pliant  heart  prepare, 
The  mind,  attuned  to  every  season, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


454  BISHOP    MANT. 


Yet,  wrap  me  in  your  sweetest  dream, 

Ye  social  feelings  of  the  mind, 
Give,  sometimes  give  your  sunny  gleam, 

And  let  the  rest  good-humor  find. 
Yes,  let  me  hail  and  welcome  give 

To  every  joy  my  lot  may  share, 
And  pleased  and  pleasing  let  me  live 

With  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


BISHOP  MANT. 

DR.  RICHARD  MANT,  one  of  the  editors  of  a  most  valuable  edition  of 
the  Holy  Bible,  is  a  living  writer  of  great  eminence.  After  filling  for 
a  time  the  office  of  Chaplain  to  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  he  be- 
came rector  of  St.  Botolph,  Bishopsgate,  and  in  1820  was  appointed 
to  the  see  of  Killaloe,  whence  he  was  translated  in  1823  to  Down 
and  Connor.  Beside  an  admirable  treatise  on  "  The  Happiness  of  the 
Blessed,"  some  volumes  of  "  Sermons,"  and  a  valuable  "  History  of 
the  Church  of  Ireland,"  Bishop  Mant  has  published  numerous  small 
poems  on  sacred  subjects  which  have  a  high  degree  of  merit. 

7   CHRISTIAN    CONSOLATION    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS. 

OH  !  come  it  first,  or  come  it  last, 
The  shadow  o'er  my  passage  cast, 
Grant  it  may  find  me  on  my  guard, 
And  at  thy  will,  0  God,  prepared 
To  welcome  the  approaching  gloom, 
The  deep  dark  stillness  of  the  tomb ! 
'Tis  but  a  transitory  night : 
The  sun  shall  rise,  and  all  be  light ! 

Sweet  thought,  and  of  sweet  solace  full, 
And  apt  the  swelling  grief  to  lull 
Of  those,  beside  a  parting  friend 
Constrained  in  bitterness  to  bend  ; 
The  form,  so  cherished  once  and  dear, 
To  follow  on  his  funeral  bier  ; 
And  see  the  grave  above  it  close, 
The  last  "long  home"  of  man's  repose. 


BISHOP    MANT.  455 


It  has  been  said,  and  I  believe, 

Though  tears  of  natural  sorrow  start, 

'Tis  mixed  with  pleasure  when  we  grieve 
For  those  the  dearest  to  the  heart, 
From  whom  long-lived  at  length  we  part ; 

As  by  a  Chiistian's  feelings  led 

We  lay  them  hi  their  peaceful  bed. 

Yet  speak  I  not  of  those  who  go 

The  allotted  pilgrimage  on  earth, 

With  earth-born  passions  grovelling  low, 
Enslaved  to  honor,  avarice,  mirth, 
Unconscious  of  a  nobler  birth  : 

But  such  as  tread  with  loftier  scope 

The  Christian's  path  with  Christian  hope. 

We  grieve  to  think,  that  they  again 

Shall  ne'er  in  this  world's  pleasure  share : 

But  sweet  the  thought,  that  this  world's  pain 
No  more  is  theirs ;  that  this  world's  care 
It  is  no  more  their  lot  to  bear. 

And  surely  in  this  scene  below 

The  joy  is  balanced  by  the  wo ! 

We  grieve  to  see  the  lifeless  form, 
The  livid  cheek,  the  sunken  eye : 

But  sweet  to  think,  corruption's  worm 
The  living  spirit  can  defy, 
And  claim  its  kindred  with  the  sky. 

Lo  !  where  the  earthen  vessel  lies  ! 

Aloft  the  unbodied  tenant  flies. 

We  grieve  to  think,  our  eyes  no  more 

That  form,  those  features  loved,  shall  trace : 

But  sweet  it  is  from  memory's  store 

To  call  each  fondly-cherished  grace, 
And  fold  them  in  the  heart's  embrace. 

No  bliss  'mid  worldly  crowds  is  bred, 

Like  musing  on  the  sainted  dead ! 


456  BISHOP    MANT. 


We  grieve  to  see  expired  the  race 

They  ran,  intent  on  works  of  love  : 

But  sweet  to  think,  no  mixture  base, 

Which  with  their  better  nature  strove, 
Shall  mar  their  virtuous  deeds  above. 

Sin  o'er  their  soul  has  lost  his  hold, 

And  left  them  with  their  earthly  mould ! 

We  grieve  to  know,  that  we  must  roam 
Apart  from  them  each  wonted  spot : 

But  sweet  to  think,  that  they  a  home 
Have  gained,  a  fair  and  goodly  lot, 
Enduring,  and  that  changeth  not. 

And  who  that  home  of  freedom  there 

Will  with  this  prison-house  compare  ? 

"Tis  grief  to  feel,  that  we  behind, 

Severed  from  those  we  love,  remain : 

'Tis  joy  to  hope,  that  we  shall  find, 

Exempt  from  sorrow,  fear,  and  pain, 
With  them  our  dwelling-place  again. 

?Tis  but  like  them  to  sink  to  rest, 

With  them  to  waken  and  be  blessed. 

0  Thou,  who  form'st  thy  creature's  mind 

With  thoughts  that  chasten  and  that  cheer, 

Grant  me  to  fill  my  space  assigned 
For  sojourning  a  stranger  here 
With  holy  hope  and  filial  fear : 

Fear  to  be  banished  far  from  Thee, 

And  hope  thy  face  unveiled  to  see  ! 

There,  before  Thee,  the  Great,  the  Good, 
By  angel  myriads  compassed  round, 

"  Made  perfect"  by  the  Saviour's  blood, 

With  virtue  clothed,  with  honor  crowned, 
"  The  spirits  of  the  just"  are  found  : 

There  tears  no  more  of  sorrow  start, 

Pain  flies  the  unmolested  heart, 
And  life  in  bliss  unites  whom  death  no  more  shall  part. 


BISHOP    MANT.  457 


TRUE     KNOWLEDGE. 

WHAT  is  true  knowledge  ? — Is  it  with  keen  eye 

Of  lucre's  sons  to  thread  the  mazy  way  ? 

Is  it  of  civic  rights,  and  royal  sway, 
And  wealth  political,  the  depths  to  try  ? 

Is  it  to  delve  the  earth,  or  soar  the  sky ; 

To  marshal  nature's  tribes  in  just  array ; 

To  mix,  and  analyze,  and  mete,  and  weigh 
Her  elements,  and  all  her  powers  descry  ? 
These  things,  who  will  may  know  them,  if  to  know 

Breed  not  vain-glory :  but  o'er  all  to  scan 
God,  in  his  works  and  word  shown  forth  below ; 

Creation's  wonders ;  and  Redemption's  plan ; 
Whence  came  we  ;  what  to  do ;  and  whither  go : 

This  is  true  knowledge,  and  "  the  whole  of  man." 

THE    LORD'S    DAY. 

HAIL  to  the  day,  which  He,  who  made  the  heaven, 
Earth,  and  their  armies,  sanctified  and  blessed, 
Perpetual  memory  of  the  Maker's  rest ! 

Hail  to  the  day,  when  He,  by  whom  was  given 

New  life  to  man,  the  tomb  asunder  riven, 

Arose !    That  day  his  Church  hath  still  confessed, 
At  once  Creation's  and  Redemption's  feast, 

Sign  of  a  world  called  forth,  a  world  forgiven. 

Welcome  that  day,  the  day  of  holy  peace, 

The  Lord's  own  day !  to  man's  Creator  owed, 

And  man's  Redeemer ;  for  the  soul's  increase 
In  sanctity,  and  sweet  repose  bestowed ; 

Type  of  the  rest  when  sin  and  care  shall  cease, 
The  rest  remaining  for  the  loved  of  God ! 

''THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

IT  is  the  Sabbath  bell,  which  calls  to  prayer, 

Even  to  the  House  of  God,  the  hallowed  dome, 
Where  He  who  claims  it  bids  his  people  come 

To  bow  before  his  throne,  and  serve  Him  there 
39 


458  BISHOP    MANT. 


With  prayers,  and  thanks,  and  praises.    Some  there  are 
Who  hold  it  meet  to  linger  now  at  home, 
And  some  o'er  fields  and  the  wide  hills  to  roam, 

And  worship  in  the  temple  of  the  air  ! 

For  me,  not  heedless  of  the  lone  address, 

Nor  slack  to  greet  my  Maker  on  the  height. 

By  wood,  or  living  stream  ;  yet  not  the  less 
Seek  I  his  presence  in  each  social  rite 

Of  his  own  temple  :  that  He  deigns  to  bless, 

There  still  He  dwells,  and  there  is  his  delight. 

THE     VILLAGE     CHURCH. 

DEAR  is  the  ancient  village  church,  which  rears 
By  the  lone  yew,  on  lime  or  elm-girt  mound, 
Its  modest  fabric  :  dear,  'mid  pleasant  sound 
Of  bells,  the  gray  embattled  tower,  that  wears, 
Of  changeful  hue,  the  marks  of  bygone  years  ; 

Buttress,  and  porch,  and  arch  with  mazy  round 
Of  curious  fret  or  shapes  fantastic  crowned ; 
Tall  pinnacles,  and  mingled  window-tiers, 
Norman,  or  misnamed  Gothic.     Fairer  spot 
Thou  givest  not,  England,  to  the  tasteful  eye, 
Nor  to  the  heart  more  soothing.     Blest  their  lot, 

Knew  they  their  bliss,  who  own,  their  dwelling  nigh, 
Such  resting-place  ;  there,  by  the  world  forgot, 
In  life  to  worship,  and,  when  dead,  to  lie ! 

THE      CHURCH     BELLS. 

WHAT  varying  sounds  from  yon  gray  pinnacles 

Sweep  o'er  the  ear,  and  claim  the  heart's  reply ! 

Now  the  blithe  peal  of  home  festivity, 
Natal  or  nuptial,  in  full  concert  swells : 
Now  the  brisk  chime,  or  voice  of  altered  bells, 

Speaks  the  due  hour  of  social  worship  nigh  : 

And  now  the  last  stage  of  mortality 
The  deep  dull  toll  with  lingering  warning  tells. 


BISHOP    MA^T.  459 


How  much  of  human  life  those  sounds  comprise ; 

Birth,  wedded  love,  God's  service,  and  the  tomb ' 
Heard  not  in  vain,  if  thence  kind  feelings  rise, 

Such  as  befit  our  being,  free  from  gloom 
Monastic, — prayer  that  communes  with  the  skies, 

And  musings  mindful  of  the  final  doom. 

SOCIAL      WORSHIP. 

THERE  is  a  joy,  which  angels  well  may  prize : 

To  see,  and  hear,  and  aid  God's  worship,  when 
Unnumbered  tongues,  a  host  of  Christian  men, 

Youths,  matrons,  maidens,  join.     Their  sounds  arise, 

"Like  many  waters ;"  now  glad  symphonies 

Of  thanks  and  glory  to  our  God  ;  and  then, 
Seal  of  the  social  prayer,  the  loud  Amen, 

Faith's  common  pledge,  contrition's  mingled  cries. 

Thus,  when  the  Church  of  Christ  was  hale  and  young, 
She  called  on  God,  one  spirit  and  one  voice ; 

Thus  from  corruption  cleansed,  with  health  new  strung, 
Her  sons  she  nurtured.    Oh !  be  theirs,  by  choice, 

What  duty  bids,  to  worship,  heart  and  tongue  ; 
At  once  to  pray,  at  once  in  God  rejoice ! 

'PR  A Y  ER . 

ERE  the  morning's  busy  ray 

Call  you  to  your  work  away  ; 

Ere  the  silent  evening  close 

Your  wearied  eyes  in  sweet  repose, 

To  lift  your  heart  and  voice  in  prayer 

Be  your  first  and  latest  care. 

He,  to  whom  the  prayer  is  due, 

From  heaven  his  throne  shall  smile  on  you ; 

Angels  sent  by  Him  shall  tend, 

Your  daily  labor  to  befriend, 

And  their  nightly  vigils  keep 

To  guard  you  in  the  hour  of  sleep. 


460  BISHOP    MANT. 


When  through  the  peaceful  parish  swells 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath-bells, 
Duly  tread  the  sacred  road 
Which  leads  you  to  the  house  of  God  ; 
The  blessing  of  the  Lamb  is  there, 
And  "  God  is  in  the  midst  of  her." 

And  oh !  where'er  your  days  be  passed, 
And  oh !  howe'er  your  lot  be  cast, 
Still  think  on  Him  whose  eye  surveys, 
Whose  hand  is  over  all  your  ways. 

Abroad,  at  home,  in  weal,  in  wo, 
That  service  which  to  Heaven  you  owe, 
That  bounden  service  duly  pay, 
And  God  shall  be  your  strength  alway. 

He  only  to  the  heart  can  give 
Peace  and  true  pleasure  while  you  live  ; 
He  only,  when  you  yield  your  breath, 
Can  guide  you  through  the  vale  of  death. 

He  can,  He  will,  from  out  the  dust 
Raise  the  blest  spirits  of  the  just ; 
Heal  every  wound,  hush  every  fear ; 
From  every  eye  wipe  every  tear ; 
And  place  them  where  distress  is  o'er, 
And  pleasures  dwell  for  evermore. 


FELICIA    HEMANS.  461 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

MRS.  HEMANS  was  born  in  Liverpool  on  the  21st  of  September,  1793. 
Her  history  is  well  known.  An  unhappy  marriage  embittered  the 
larger  part  of  her  life,  and  after  an  illness  singularly  protracted  and 
painful,  she  died,  in  Dublin,  on  the  16ih  of  May,  1835.  The  most 
remarkable  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry  are  a  religious 
purity  and  a  womanly  delicacy  of  feeling,  never  exaggerated,  rarely 
forgotten.  Writing  less  of  love,  in  its  more  special  acceptation,  than 
most  female  poets,  her  poems  are  still  unsurpassed  in  feminine  tender- 
ness. Devotion  to  God,  and  quenchless  affection  for  kindred,  for 
friends,  for  the  suffering,  glow  through  all  her  writings.  Her  sympa- 
thies were  not  universal.  They  appear  often  to  be  limited  by  country, 
creed,  or  condition ;  and  she  betrays  a  reverent  admiration  for  rank, 
power,  and  historic  renown.  Yet  as  the  poet  of  home,  a  painter  of  the 
affections,  she  was  perhaps  the  most  touching  and  beautiful  writer  of 
her  age.  The  tone  of  her  poetry  is  indeed  monotonous ;  it  is  pervaded 
by  the  tender  sadness  which  forever  preyed  upon  her  spirit,  and  made 
her  an  exile  from  society;  but  it  is  all  informed  with  beauty,  and  rich 
with  most  apposite  imagery  and  fine  descriptions.  Many  editions  of 
the  works  of  Mrs.  Hemans  have  appeared  in  this  country,  of  which 
the  best,  indeed  the  only  one  that  has  any  pretensions  to  completeness, 
is  that  of  Lea  and  Blanchard,  in  seven  volumes,  with  a  preliminary 
notice  by  Mrs.  Sigourney. 


THE     AGED     PATRIARCH. 

OF  life's  past  woes,  the  fading  trace 
Hath  given  that  aged  patriarch's  face 
Expression,  holy,  deep,  resigned, 
The  calm  sublimity  of  mind. 

Years  o'er  his  snowy  head  have  passed, 
And  left  him  of  his  race  the  last : 
Alone  on  earth,  but  yet  his  mien 
Is  bright  with  majesty  serene  ; 
39* 


462  FELICIA    HEMANS. 


And  those  high  hopes,  whose  guiding  star 
Shines  from  eternal  worlds  afar, 
Have  with  that  light  illumed  his  eye, 
Whose  fount  is  immortality, 

And  o'er  his  features  poured  a  ray 
Of  glory  not  to  pass  away  : 
He  seems  a  being  who  hath  known 
Communion  with  his  God  alone  ; 

On  earth  by  naught  but  pity's  tie, 
Detained  a  moment  from  on  high ; 
One  to  sublimer  worlds  allied, 
One  from  all  passions  purified  : 

E'en  now  half-mingled  with  the  sky, 
And  all  prepared,  oh  !  not  to  die, 
But,  like  the  prophet,  to  aspire 
To  heaven's  triumphal  car  of  fire. 

CHRIST    STILLING    THE    TEMPEST. 

FEAR  was  within  the  tossing  bark, 
When  stormy  winds  grew  loud ; 

And  waves  came  rolling  high  and  dark, 
And  the  tall  mast  was  bowed. 

And  men  stood  breathless  in  their  dread, 

And  baffled  in  their  skill ; 
But  One  was  there,  who  rose  and  said 

To  the  wild  sea,  "  Be  still !" 

And  the  wind  ceased — it  ceased — that  word 
Passed  through  the  gloomy  sky ; 

The  troubled  billows  knew  their  Lord, 
And  sank  beneath  his  eye. 

And  slumber  settled  on  the  deep, 

And  silence  on  the  blast : 
As  when  the  righteous  fall  asleep, 

When  death's  fierce  throes  are  past. 


FELICIA    HEMANS.  463 


Thou,  that  didst  rule  the  angry  hour, 
And  tame  the  tempest's  mood, 

Oh !  send  thy  Spirit  forth  in  power, 
O'er  our  dark  souls  to  brood. 

Thou,  that  didst  bow  the  billow's  pride, 

Thy  mandates  to  fulfil, — 
So  speak  to  passion's  raging  tide, 

Speak  and  say,—"  Peace,  be  still !" 


A     DOMESTIC     SCENE. 

'TWAS  early  day — and  sunlight  streamed 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room 
That  hushed,  but  not  forsaken,  seemed — 

Still,  but  with  naught  but  gloom, 
For  there,  secure  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  fell  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright 

On  his  gray  holy  hair, 
And  touched  the  book  with  tenderest  light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there  ; 
But  oh  !  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance  all  the  spirits  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm  benignant  eye ; 
Some  ancient  promise  breathing  yet 

Of  immortality ; 
Some  heart's  deep  language,  where  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives ; 
For  every  feature  said,  "  I  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives." 


464  FELICIA    HEMANS. 


And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ersweeping  death  ; 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast, 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 
Oh !  blest  be  those  fair  girls — and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt. 


/  THE     BETTER     LAND. 


"I  HEAR  thee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother !  oh  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  the  fire-flies  dance  through  the  myrtle-boughs  ?" 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child !" 

"  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies  ? 
Or  'midst  the  green  islands  on  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange,  bright  birds,  on  their  starry  wings, 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things  ?" 

"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  !" 

"  Is  it  far  away  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  coral  strand, 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ?" 

"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy  ! 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy ! 


FELICIA    HEMAN8.  405 


Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair, — 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there ; 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom ; 
Far  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb — 

It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child !" 


'THE   HOUE   OF   DEATH. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Ere  for  glad  meetings  round  tne  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer : 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine  ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears, — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 

That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

• 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain : 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 


466  FELICIA    HEMANS. 


Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? — 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest, — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
^And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death  ! 


HYMN    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN    CHRISTIAN. 

FOR  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 
Thou  hast  made  thy  children  mighty 

By  the  touch  of  the  mountain  sod. 
Thou  hast  fixed  our  ark  of  refuge 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whose  lights  must  never  die ; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

Midst  the  silence  of  the  sky ; 
The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage, 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 


FELICIA    HEMANS.  467 


For  the  dark,  resounding  heavens, 

Where  thy  still  small  voice  is  heard, 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forests, 

That  by  thy  breath  are  stirred  ; 
For  the  storms  on  whose  free  pinions 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God ! 

The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  heights, 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master 

Seeks  there  his  wild  delights ; 
But  we  for  thy  communion 

Have  sought  the  mountain  sod, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

The  banner  of  the  chieftain 

Far,  far  below  us  waves  ; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearman 

Cannot  reach  our  lofty  caves  ; 
Thy  dark  clouds  wrap  the  threshold 

Of  freedom's  last  abode  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

For  the  shadow  of  thy  presence 

Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread ; 
For  the  stern  defiles  of  battle, 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead  ; 
For  the  snows,  and  for  the  torrents, 

For  the  free  heart's  burial  sod, 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 


468  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY,  formerly  Miss  Lydia  Huntley,  was  born  in  Nor- 
wich, Connecticut,  about  the  year  1794,  and  in  1819  was  married  to 
Mr.  Charles  Sigourney,  an  opulent  merchant  of  Hartford,  in  which 
city  she  now  resides.  She  began  to  write  verses  at  a  very  early  age, 
and  in  1815  gave  to  the  press  her  first  book,  under  the  title  of  "Moral 
Pieces."  She  has  since  published  six  or  seven  volumes  in  verse,  and 
about  as  many  in  prose.  "  The  Aborigines,"  her  longest  poeri,  ap- 
peared anonymously,  at  Cambridge,  and  attracted  but  little  attention. 
During  a  visit  which  she  made  to  Europe  in  1840-41,  a  selection  from 
her  poetical  writings  was  printed  in  London,  and  soon  after  her  return, 
in  1842,  the  most  finished  and  sustained  of  her  longer  poems,  "Poca- 
hontas,"  was  published  in  a  volume  with  some  minor  pieces,  in  New 
York.  Among  her  prose  works  are  "  Connecticut  Forty  Years 
Since,"  "  Letters  to  Young  Ladies,"  "  Letters  to  Mothers,"  «  Pleasant 
Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands,"  "  Scenes  in  My  Native  Land,"  and 
"  Myrtis,  and  other  Sketchings,"  the  last  of  which  appeared  in  the 
fall  of  1846.  In  a  reviewal  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Sigourney,  pub- 
lished by  the  late  Hon.  Alexander  H.  Everett,  this  accomplished  critic 
remarks  that  "  they  commonly  express,  with  great  purity,  and  evident 
sincerity,  the  tender  affections  which  are  so  natural  to  the  female 
heart,  and  the  lofty  aspirations  after  a  higher  and  better  state  of  being, 
which  constitute  the  truly  ennobling  and  elevating  principle  in  art,  as 
well  as  in  nature.  Love  and  religion  are  the  unvarying  elements  of 
her  song.  This  is  saying,  in  other  words,  that  the  substance  of  her 
poetry  is  of  the  very  highest  order.  If  her  powers  of  expression  were 
equal  to  the  purity  and  elevation  of  her  habits  of  thought  and  feeling, 
she  would  be  a  female  Milton,  or  a  Christian  Pindar."  A  full  and 
splendidly  illustrated  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works  of  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
has  just  been  published  by  Carey  &  Hart,  of  Philadelphia. 

BARZILLAI    THE    GILEADITE. 

'  Let  me  be  buried  by  the  grave  of  my  father  and  of  my  mother."— 2  Sam.  xix.  37. 

SON  of  Jesse ! — let  me  go, 

Why  should  princely  honors  stay  me  ? — 
Where  the  streams  of  Gilead  flow, 
Where  the  light  first  met  mine  eye, 


LYDIA   H.  SIGOURNEY.  469 

Thither  would  I  turn  and  die  ; — 
Where  my  parents'  ashes  lie, 

King  of  Israel ! — bid  them  lay  me. 

Bury  me  near  my  sire  revered, 
Whose  feet  in  righteous  paths  so  firmly  trod, 
Who  early  taught  my  soul  with  awe 
To  heed  the  prophets  and  the  law, 
And  to  my  infant  heart  appeared 

Majestic  as  a  God  : — 
O  !  when  his  sacred  dust 
The  cerements  of  the  tomb  shall  burst, 
Might  I  be  worthy  at  his  feet  to  rise 

To  yonder  blissful  skies, 
Where  angel-hosts  resplendent  shine, 
Jehovah  ! — Lord  of  hosts,  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Cold  age  upon  my  breast 
Hath  shed  a  frostlike  death  ; 

The  wine- cup  hath  no  zest, 
The  rose  no  fragrant  breath  ; 
Music  from  my  ear  hath  fled, 

Yet  still  the  sweet  tone  lingereth  there. 
The  blessing  that  my  mother  shed 
Upon  my  evening  prayer. 
Dim  is  my  wasted  eye 
To  all  that  beauty  brings, 
The  brow  of  grace — the  form  of  symmetry 

Are  half-forgotten  things  ; — 
Yet  one  bright  hue  is  vivid  still, 
A  mother's  holy  smile,  that  soothed  my  sharpest  ill. 

Memory,  with  traitor-tread 

Methinks,  doth  steal  away 
Treasures  that  the  mind  hath  laid 

Up  for  a  wintry  day. 
Images  of  sacred  power, 
Cherished  deep  in  passion's  hour, 

Faintly  now  my  bosom  stir : 
40 


470  LYDIA  H.  S1GOURNEY. 


Good  and  evil  like  a  dream 

Half  obscured  and  shadowy  seem, 
Yet  with  a  changeless  love  my  soul  remembereth  her, 

Yea — it  remembereth  her  : 
Close  by  her  blessed  side,  make  ye  my  sepulchre. 


DEATH     OF    AN      INFANT. 

DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polished  brow, 
And  dashed  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
Forever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence.     But  there  beamed  a  smile, 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven. 


THE      CHURCH      BELL. 

WHEN  glowing  in  the  eastern  sky, 
The  Sabbath  morning  meets  the  eye, 
And  o'er  a  weary,  careworn  scene, 
Gleams  like  the  ark-dove's  leaf  of  green, 
How  welcome  over  hill  and  dale, 
Thy  hallowed  summons  loads  the  gale, 

Sweet  bell !    Church  bell 

When  earthly  joys  and  sorrows  end, 
And  towards  our  long  repose  we  tend, 
How  mournfully  thy  tone  doth  call 
The  weepers  to  the  funeral, 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY.  471 

And  to  the  last  abode  of  clay, 
With  solemn  knell  mark  out  the  way, 

Sad  bell!    Church  bell! 

If  to  the  clinie  where  pleasures  reign, 
We  through  a  Saviour's  love  attain, 
If  freshly  to  an  angel's  thought, 
Earth's  unforgotten  scenes  are  brought, 
Will  not  thy  voice,  that  warned  to  prayer, 
Be  gratefully  remembered  there, 

Blessed  bell!    Church  bell? 


THE      TREE      OF     LOVE. 

BESIDE  the  dear  domestic  bower, 
There  sprang  a  tree  of  healing  power ; 
Its  leaflets,  damp  with  gentle  rain, 
Could  soothe  or  quell  the  pang  of  pain ; 
And  'neath  its  shade  a  maiden  grew, 
She  shared  its  fruit,  she  drank  its  dew. 

Oft  at  her  side  a  youth  was  seen, 
With  glance  of  love  and  noble  mien ; 
At  twilight  hour  a  favored  guest, 
Her  trembling  hand  he  warmly  pressed ; 
At  length  with  guileless  heart  and  free, 
She  said,  "  I'll  plant  that  tree  for  thee." 

Her  little  brother  climbed  her  knee : 
"  You  must  not  go  away  from  me  ; 
The  nightly  prayer  with  me  you  say, 
And  soothe  me  when  I'm  tired  of  play :" 
His  sister's  eye  with  tears  was  dim : 
She  said,  "  fll  plant  that  tree  for  him." 

"  Its  roots  are  deep,"  the  mother  said  ; 
"  Beyond  the  darkling  grave  they  spread ;" 
"  Thy  hand  is  weak/'  the  father  cried ; 
"  Too  young  thou  art  to  be  a  bride." 
40* 


472  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

Serene  she  spake,  "  I  look  above 

For  strength  to  plant  the  tree  of  love." 

Before  the  holy  priest  she  stood, 
Her  fair  cheek  dyed  with  rushing  blood ; 
And  as,  with  hands  to  heaven  displayed, 
Strong  vows  upon  her  soul  he  laid, 
Her  heaving  breast,  like  fluttering  bird, 
Her  snowy  mantle  wildly  stirred. 

But  when  the  hallowed  cirque  of  gold, 
Of  deathless  love  the  promise  told, 
Mysterious  power  her  spirit  felt, 
And  at  the  altar's  foot  she  knelt : 
"  My  God,  my  God,  I'll  cling  to  thee, 
And  plant  for  him  that  blessed  tree." 

Around  their  home  its  branches  spread, 
Its  buds  she  nursed,  its  root  she  fed  ; 
Though  flaunting  crowds,  with  giddy  look, 
Of  toil  so  meek  slight  notice  took, 
Yet  hovering  angels  marked  with  pride 
The  green  tree  of  the  blessed  bride. 

Dfc  ATH      OF     A     FRIEND. 

IT  is  not  when  the  good  obey 

The  summons  of  their  God, 
And  meekly  take  the  narrow  couch 

Beneath  the  burial  sod, 
That  keenest  anguish  pours  its  wail, 

Despairing  o'er  their  rest, 
For  praise  should  mingle  with  the  pang 

That  wring's  the  mourner's  breast. 

It  is  not  when  the  saint  departs, 
Whose  wealth  was  hid  on  high, 

That  bitterest  tears  of  grief  should  gush 
From  sad  bereavement's  eye  ; 


474  LYDIA  H.   SIGOURNEY. 


Ihou  !  who  in  childhood's  wayward  hour, 
Wert  subject  to  thy  mother's  power, 
Withdraw  his  heart  from  Folly's  snare, 
And  in  Thy  wisdom  let  him  share. 

The  man  mature,  'mid  noontide  heat, 
Temptation's  countless  forms  must  meet ; 
Redeemer !  thou  who  scorn  and  care 
With  meek,  unanswering  love  didst  bear. 
His  burdens  ease,  his  thoughts  control, 
And  with  thy  patience  arm  his  soul. 

The  lonely  stranger  sorrowing  roves, 

An  exile  from  the  land  he  loves  ; 

Thou,  who  but  in  one  cottage  glade 

At  Bethany  wert  welcome  made, 

Speak  peace  when  deep  despondence  sighs, 

And  tell  of  mansions  in  the  skies. 

The  mourner  droops  with  heaving  breast, 
Low,  where  his  buried  idols  rest ; 
Remember,  Thou,  who  once  didst  shed 
The  tear  of  grief  o'er  friendship's  bed, 
Remember  !  let  thy  mercy  flow, 
And  bless  for  heaven  those  pangs  of  wo. 

The  death-struck,  on  his  couch  of  pain, 
Feels  every  earthly  solace  vain  ; 
The  eye  is  glazed,  the  spirit  faint, 
Redeemer  !  cheer  thy  suffering  saint ; 
Infuse  thy  strength  when  nature  dies, 
And  to  thy  presence  bid  him  rise. 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  475 


CARLOS  WILCOX. 

THE  Rev.  Carlos  Wilcox  was  born  in  Newport,  New  Hampshire,  on 
the  22d  of  October,  1794,  and  his  youth  was  passed  in  Orwell,  Ver- 
mont. After  graduating  at  Middlebury  College,  in  1813,  he  studied 
divinity  at  Andover,  and  he  was  subsequently,  as  his  precarious  health 
permitted,  a  minister  of  the  congregational  churches  in  Hartford,  Dan- 
bury,  and  other  places,  until  his  death,  at  Danbury,  on  the  27th  of  May, 
1827.  His  principal  poems  are  "  The  Age  of  Benevolei  ce,"  and  the 
"  Religion  of  Taste,"  both  of  which  are  included  in  the  collection  of 
nis  works  published  soon  after  his  death.  Wilcox  was  pious,  gentle- 
hearted,  and  unaffected  and  retiring  in  his  manners.  The  general  char- 
acter of  his  poetry  is  religious  and  sincere.  He  was  a  lover  of  nature, 
and  he  described  rural  sights  and  sounds  with  singular  clearness  and 
fidelity.  In  the  ethical  and  narrative  parts  of  his  poems,  he  was  less 
successful  than  in  the  descriptive  ;  but  an  earnestness  and  simplicity 
pervaded  all  that  he  wrote. 

THE     SABBATH. 

WHO  scorn  the  hallowed  day  set  heaven  at  naught. 
Heaven  would  wear  out  whom  one  short  sabbath  tires. 
Emblem  and  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 
A  festival  with  fruits  celestial  crowned, 
A  jubilee  releasing  him  from  earth, 
The  day  delights  and  animates  the  saint. 
It  gives  new  vigor  to  the  languid  pulse 
Of  life  divine,  restores  the  wandering  feet, 
Strengthens  the  weak,  upholds  the  prone  to  slip, 
Quickens  the  lingering,  and  the  sinking  lifts, 
Establishing  them  all  upon  a  rock. 
Sabbaths,  like  way-marks,  cheer  the  pilgrim's  path, 
His  progress  mark,  and  keep  his  rest  in  view. 
In  life's  bleak  winter,  they  are  pleasant  days, 
Short  foretastes  of  the  long,  longr  spring  to  come. 
To  every  new-born  soul,  each  hallowed  mom 
Seems  like  the  first,  when  even*  thing  was  new. 


476 


CARLOS    VVILCOX. 


Time  seems  an  angel  come  afresh  from  heaven, 

His  pinions  shedding  fragrance  as  he  flies, 

And  his  brigh^  hourglass  running  sands  of  gold. 

In  every  thing  a  smiling  God  is  seen. 

On  earth,  his  beauty  blooms,  and  in  the  sun 

His  glory  shines.     In  objects  overlooked 

On  other  days,  he  now  arrests  the  eye. 

Not  in  the  deep  recesses  of  his  works, 

But  on  their  face,  he  now  appears  to  dwell. 

While  silence  reigns  among  the  works  of  man, 

The  works  of  God  have  leave  to  speak  his  praise 

With  louder  voice,  in  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 

His  vital  Spirit,  like  the  light,  pervades 

All  nature,  breathing  round  the  air  of  heaven, 

And  spreading  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  life 

A  halcyon  calm.     Sight  were  not  heeded  now 

To  bring  him  near ;  for  Faith  performs  the  work  ; 

In  solemn  thought  surrounds  herself  with  God, 

With  such  transparent  vividness,  she  feels 

Struck  with  admiring  awe,  as  if  transformed 

To  sudden  vision.     Such  is  oft  her  power 

In  God's  own  house,  which,  in  the  absorbing  act 

Of  adoration,  or  inspiring  praise, 

She  with  his  glory  fills,  as  once  a  cloud 

Of  radiance  filled  the  temple's  inner  court. 

GOD'S      OMNIPRESENT     AGENCY. 

How  desolate  were  nature,  and  how  void 
Of  every  charm,  how  like  a  naked  waste 
Of  Africa,  were  not  a  present  God 
Beheld  employing,  in  its  various  scenes, 
His  active  might  to  animate  and  adorn ! 
What  life  and  beauty,  when,  in  all  that  breathes, 
Or  moves,  or  grows,  his  hand  is  viewed  at  work  !- 
When  it  is  viewed  unfolding  every  bud, 
Each  blossom  tinging,  shaping  every  leaf, 
Wafting  each  cloud  that  passes  o'er  the  sky, 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  477 


Rolling  each  billow,  moving  every  wing 

That  fans  the  air,  and  every  warbling  throat 

Heard  in  the  tuneful  woodlands !     In  the  least, 

As  well  as  in  the  greatest  of  his  works, 

Is  ever  manifest  his  presence  kind ; 

As  well  in  swarms  of  glittering  insects,  seen 

Quick  to  and  fro,  within  a  foot  of  air, 

Dancing  a  merry  hour,  then  seen  no  more, 

As  in  the  systems  of  resplendent  worlds, 

Through  time  revolving  in  unbounded  space. 

His  eye,  while  comprehending  in  one  view 

The  whole  creation,  fixes  full  on  me ; 

As  on  me  shines  the  sun  with  his  full  blaze, 

While  o'er  the  hemisphere  he  spreads  the  same. 

His  hand,  while  holding  oceans  in  its  palm, 

And  compassing  the  skies,  surrounds  my  life, 

Guards  the  poor  rush-light  from  the  blast  of  death. 

ROUSSEAU     AND     COW  PER. 

ROUSSEAU  could  weep — yes,  with  a  heart  of  stone 
The  impious  sophist  could  recline  beside 
The  pure  and  peaceful  lake,  and  muse  alone 
On  all  its  loveliness  at  eventide : 
On  its  small  running  waves,  in  purple  dyed 
Beneath  bright  clouds,  or  all  the  glowing  sky, 
On  the  white  sails  that  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 
And  on  surrounding  mountains  wild  and  high, 
Till  tears  unbidden  gushed  from  his  enchanted  eye. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine, 
Of  grief  or  love  ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flowed, 
Like  burning  drops  from  some  proud,  lonely  pine, 
By  lightning  fired ;  his  heart  with  passion  glowed 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  showed 
A  chilling  coldness  both  to  friend  and  foe ; 
As  Etna,  with  its  centre  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  below. 


478  CARLOS    WILCOX. 


Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes  ? 
Then  why  was  Cowper's  anguish  oft  as  keen, 
With  all  the  heaven-born  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  to  things  unseen 
Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds  that  roll  between 
The  earth  and  skies,  to  darken  human  hope  ? 
Or  wherefore  did  those  clouds  thus  intervene 
To  render  vain  faith's  lifted  telescope, 
And  leave  him  in  thick  gloom  his  weary  way  to  grope  ? 

He,  too,  could  give  himself  to  musing  deep  ; 
By  the  calm  lake  at  evening  he  could  stand, 
Lonely  and  sad,  to  see  the  moonlight  sleep 
On  all  its  breast,  by  not  an  insect  fanned, 
And  hear  low  voices  on  the  far-off  strand, 
Or  through  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere 
The  pipe's  soft  tones  waked  by  some  gentle  hand, 
From  fronting  shore  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  quick  returned  more  mellow  and  more  clear. 

And  he  could  cherish  wild  and  mournful  dreams, 
In  the  pine  grove,  when  low  the  full  moon  fair 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams, 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  bare, 
In  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  order  rare, 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade, 
While  on  green  turf,  made  smooth  without  his  care, 
He  wandered  o'er  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade, 
And  heard  the  dying  day-breeze  all  the  boughs  pervade. 

'Twas  thus  in  nature's  bloom  and  solitude 
He  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuage  ; 
'Twas  thus  his  tender  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  life's  toils  it  could  no  more  engage ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage, 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  power, 
To  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age ; 
But  he  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  devour, 
Where  beauty  will  not  fade,  and  skies  will  never  lower. 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  479 


THE     CURE     OF     MELANCHOLY. 

AND  thou,  to  whom  long  worshipped  nature  lends 
No  strength  to  fly  from  grief  or  bear  its  weight, 
Stop  not  to  rail  at  foes  or  fickle  friends, 
Nor  set  the  world  at  naught,  nor  spurn  at  fate ; 
None  seek  thy  misery,  none  thy  being  hate  ; 
Break  from  thy  former  self,  thy  life  begin  ; 
Do  thou  the  good  thy  thoughts  oft  meditate, 
And  thou  shalt  feel  the  good  man's  peace  within, 
And  at  thy  dying  day  his  wreath  of  glory  win. 

With  deeds  of  virtue  to  embalm  his  name, 
He  dies  in  triumph  or  serene  delight ; 
Weaker  and  weaker  grows  his  mortal  frame 
At  every  breath,  but  in  immortal  might 
His  spirit  grows,  preparing  for  its  flight : 
The  world  recedes  and  fades  like  clouds  of  even, 
But  heaven  comes  nearer  fast,  and  grows  more  bright, 
All  intervening  mists  far  off  are  driven ; 
The  earth  will  vanish  soon,  and  all  will  soon  be  heaven. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief? 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppressed  with  woes  untold  ? 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold : 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapped  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty  ;  not  when,  all  unrolled, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom  rich  and  fair 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient  air. 

Wake,  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers, 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the  night 
When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  numbered  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 
Wake  ere  the  earthborn  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
41 


480  CARLOS    VVILCOX. 

And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  addressed ; 
Do  something — do  it  soon — with  all  thy  might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself  inactive  were  no  longer  blessed. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined ; 
Pray  Heaven  with  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fixed  and  feelings  pureiy  kind, 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permit 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air ; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare  ; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That,  'mid  gay  thousands,  with  the  suns  and  showers 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 

Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  heaven  ? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds,  and  follow  where  each  moves  ? 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim  loves  ? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace, 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of  Greece  ? 

Beware  lest  thou,  from  sloth,  that  would  appear 

But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 

Thy  want  of  worth  ;  a  charge  thou  could st  not  hear 

From  other  lips,  without  a  blush  of  shame, 

Or  pride  indignant ;  then  be  thine  the  blame, 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  481 


And  make  thyself  of  worth ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame ; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  missed, 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above ; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow ; 
The  seed  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours, 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bowers. 

LIVE     FOR     ETERNITY. 

A  BRIGHT  or  dark  eternity  in  view, 
With  all  its  fixed,  unutterable  things, 
What  madness  in  the  living  to  pursue, 
As  their  chief  portion,  with  the  speed  of  wings, 
The  joys  that  death-beds  always  turn  to  stings ! 
Infatuated  man,  on  earth's  smooth  waste 
To  dance  along  the  path  that  always  brings 
Quick  to  an  end,  from  which  with  tenfold  haste 
Back  would  he  gladly  fly  till  all  should  be  retraced ! 

Our  life  is  like  the  hurrying  on  the  eve 
Before  we  start,  on  some  long  journey  bound, 
When  fit  preparing  to  the  last  we  leave, 
Then  run  to  every  room  the  dwelling  round, 
And  sigh  that  nothing  needed  can  be  found , 
Yet  go  we  must,  and  soon  as  day  shall  break ; 
We  snatch  an  hour's  repose,  when  loud  the  sound 
For  our  departure  calls ;  we  rise  and  take 
A  quick  and  sad  farewell,  and  go  ere  well  awake. 

Reared  in  the  sunshine,  blasted  by  the  storms 
Of  changing  time,  scarce  asking  why  or  whence, 
41 


482  JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN. 


Men  come  and  go  like  vegetable  forms, 
Though  heaven  appoints  for  them  a  work  immense, 
Demanding  constant  thought  and  zeal  intense, 
Awaked  by  hopes  and  fears  that  leave  no  room 
For  rest  to  mortals  in  the  dread  suspense, 
While  yet  they  know  not  if  beyond  the  tomb 
A  long,  long  life  of  bliss  or  wo  shall  be  their  doom. 

What  matter  whether  pain  or  pleasures  fill 
The  swelling  heart  one  little  moment  here  ? 
From  both  alike  how  vain  is  every  thrill, 
While  an  untried  eternity  is  near ! 
Think  not  of  rest,  fond  man,  in  life's  career , 
The  joys  and  grief  that  meet  thee,  dash  aside 
Like  bubbles,  and  thy  bark  right  onward  steer 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  till  it  cross  the  tide, 
Shoot  into  port  in  triumph,  or  serenely  glide. 


JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN. 

THE  Rev.  James  Wallis  Eastburn  was  born  in  New  York  in  1797. 
and  after  graduating  at  Columbia  College,  studied  theology  under 
Bishop  Griswold.  He  was  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Robert  C. 
Sands,  and  wrote  with  him  "  Yamoyden,"  which  was  first  published 
in  1820.  After  receiving  orders,  Mr.  Eastburn  went  to  Virginia,  but 
sickness  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  profession,  and  he  died  at 
sea,  on  a  voyage  in  search  of  health,  on  the  2d  of  December,  1819. 
The  Bishop  of  the  Episcopal  Church  in  Massachusetts,  is  a  brother  of 
the  deceased  poet. 

THE    RESTORATION    OF    ISRAEL. 

MOUNTAINS  of  Israel,  rear  on  high 

Your  summits,  crowned  with  verdure  new, 
And  spread  your  branches  to  the  sky, 

Refulgent  with  celestial  dew. 
O'er  Jordan's  stream,  of  gentle  flow, 

And  Judah's  peaceful  valleys,  smile, 
And  far  reflect  the  lovely  glow 

Where  ocean's  waves  incessant  toil. 


JAMES    WALL1S    EASTBURN.  483 

See  where  the  scattered  tribes  return ; 

Their  slavery  is  burst  at  length ; 
And  purer  flames  to  Jesus  burn, 

And  Zion  girds  on  her  new  strength  ; 
New  cities  bloom  along  the  plain, 

New  temples  to  Jehovah  rise, 
The  kindling  voice  of  praise  again 

Pours  its  sweet  anthems  to  the  skies. 

The  fruitful  fields  again  are  blest 

And  yellow  harvests  smile  around ; 
Sweet  scenes  of  heavenly  joy  and  rest, 

Where  peace  and  innocence  are  found. 
The  bloody  sacrifice  no  more 

Shall  smoke  upon  the  altars  high, — 
But  ardent  hearts,  from  hill  to  shore, 

Send  grateful  incense  to  the  sky  ! 

The  jubilee  of  man  is  near, 

When  earth,  as  heaven,  shall  own  His  reign ; 
He  comes  to  wipe  the  mourner's,  tear, 

And  cleanse  the  heart  from  sin  and  pain. 
Praise  him,  ye  tribes  of  Israel,  praise  " 

The  king  that  ransomed  you  from  wo : 
Nations,  the  hymn  of  triumph  raise, 

And  bid  the  song  of  rapture  flow ! 


TO     PNEUMA. 

TEMPESTS  their  furious  course  may  sweep 
Swiftly  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
Darkness  may  lend  her  gloomy  aid, 
And  wrap  the  groaning  world  in  shade  ; 
But  man  can  show  a  darker  hour, 
And  bend  beneath  a  stronger  power ; — 
There  is  a  tempest  of  the  soul, 
A  gloom  where  wilder  billows  roll ! 


484  JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN. 

The  howling  wilderness  may  spread 
Its  pathless  deserts,  parched  and  dread, 
Where  not  a  blade  of  herbage  blooms, 
Nor  yields  the  breeze  its  soft  perfumes ; 
Where  silence,  death,  and  horror  reign, 
Unchecked,  across  the  wide  domain ; — 
There  is  a  desert  of  the  mind 
More  hopeless,  dreary,  undefined  ! 

There  Sorrow,  moody  Discontent, 
And  gnawing  Care,  are  wildly  blent ; 
There  Horror  hangs  her  darkest  clouds, 
And  the  whole  scene  in  gloom  enshrouds ', 
A  sickly  ray  is  cast  around, 
Where  naught  but  dreariness  is  found ; 
A  feeling  that  may  not  be  told, 
Dark,  rending,  lonely,  drear,  and  cold. 

The  wildest  ills  that  darken  life 

Are  rapture  to  the  bosom's  strife ; 

The  tempest,  in  its  blackest  form, 

Is  beauty  tp  the  bosom's  storm  ; 

The  ocean,  lashed  to  fury  loud, 

Its  high  wave  mingling  with  the  cloud, 

Is  peaceful,  sweet  serenity 

To  passion's  dark  and  boundless  sea. 

There  sleeps  no  calm,  there  smiles  no  rest, 
When  storms  are  warring  in  the  breast ; 
There  is  no  moment  of  repose 
In  bosoms  lashed  by  hidden  woes  ; 
The  scorpion  sting,  the  fury  rears, 
And  every  trembling  fibre  tears  ; 
The  vulture  preys  with  bloody  beak 
Upon  the  heart  that  can  but  break ! 

PART  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  PSALM. 

THE  glittering  heaven's  refulgent  glow, 
And  sparkling  spheres  of  golden  light, 


JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN.  485 


Jehovah's  work  and  glory  show, 

By  burning  day  or  gentle  night. 
In  silence,  through  the  vast  profound, 

They  move  their  orbs  of  fire  on  high, 
Nor  speech,  nor  word,  nor  answering  sound, 

Is  heard  upon  the  tranquil  sky ; 
Yet  to  the  earth's  remotest  bar 

Their  burning  glory,  all  is  known  ; 
Their  living  light  has  sparkled  far, 

And  on  the  attentive  silence  shone. 

God,  'mid  their  shining  legions,  rears 

A  tent  where  burns  the  radiant  sun : 
As,  like  a  bridegroom  bright,  appears 

The  monarch,  on  his  course  begun, 
From  end  to  end  of  azure  heaven 

He  holds  his  fiery  path  along ; 
To  all  his  circling  heat  is  given, 

His  radiance  flames  the  spheres  among, 
By  sunny  ray,  and  starry  throne, 

The  wonders  of  our  mighty  Lord 
To  man's  attentive  heart  are  known, 

Bright  as  the  promise  of  his  word. 
41* 


48G  W.  B.  O.  PEABODY 


W.  B.  0.  PEABODY. 

THE  late  Rev.  William  B.  O.  Peabody  was  born  at  Exeter,  New 
Hampshire,  in  1799.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  grad- 
uated in  1816.  In  1820  he  was  established  as  a  minister  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  and  resided  there  until  his  death, 
in  1848,  discharging  his  professional  duties,  and  writing  much  for  the 
North  American  Review,  and  other  periodicals. 


HYMN     OF     NATURE. 

GOD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 

The  dark,  green  fields  contented  lie ; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky ; 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

GOD  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

GOD  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee ; 


W.  B.  O.  PEABODY.  487 


But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

GOD  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry, 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

GOD  of  the  fair  and  open  sky ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings ! 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

GOD  of  the  rolling  orbs  above ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

GOD  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay  ; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
T^or  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


488  W.  B.   O.  PEABODY. 


DEATH. 

LIFT  high  the  curtain's  drooping  fold, 

And  let  the  evening  sunlight  in ; 
I  would  not  that  my  heart  grew  cold 

Before  its  better  years  begin. 
'Tis  well ;  at  such  an  early  hour, 

So  calm  and  pure,  a  sinking  ray 
Should  shine  into  the  heart,  with  power 

To  drive  its  darker  thoughts  away. 

The  bright,  young  thoughts  of  early  days 

Shall  gather  in  my  memory  now, 
And  not  the  later  cares,  whose  trace 

Is  stamped  so  deeply  on  my  brow. 
What  though  those  days  return  no  more  ? 

The  sweet  remembrance  is  not  vain, 
For  Heaven  is  waiting  to  restore 

The  childhood  of  my  soul  again. 

Let  no  impatient  mourner  stand 

In  hollow  sadness  near  my  bed, 
But  let  me  rest  upon  the  hand, 

And  let  me  hear  that  gentle  tread 
Of  her,  whose  kindness  long  ago, 

And  still,  unworn  away  by  years, 
Has  made  my  weary  eyelids  flow 

With  grateful  and  admiring  tears. 

I  go,  but  let  no  plaintive  tone, 

The  moment's  grief  of  friendship  tell ; 
And  let  no  proud  and  graven  stone 

Say  where  the  weary  slumbers  well. 
A  few  short  hours,  and  then  for  heaven  ! 

Let  sorrow  all  its  tears  dismiss  ; 
For  who  would  mourn  the  warning  given 

Which  calls  us  from  a  world  like  this  ? 


W.  B.   O.  PEABODY.  489 


AUTUMN     EVENING. 

BEHOLD  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom ; 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  wind  breathes  low  ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  ; 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed ! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
'Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears  ; 
So  faith  springs  in  the  heart  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  hi  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore ; 
And  eyelids  that  are  sealed  in  death 

Shall  wake,  to  close  no  more. 


490  HERBERT    KNOVVLES. 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 

THE  following  stanzas  are  the  production  of  a  youth  of  only  eigh- 
teen years  of  age,  and  are  replete  with  originality  and  fancy,  happily 
blended  with  Christian  feeling.  The  author,  whom  disagreements 
with  his  family  induced  to  enlist  as  a  private  soldier,  died  of  consump- 
tion at  a  very  early  age,  in  1817. 

THE     THREE     TABERNACLES. 

METHINKS  it  is  good  to  be  here, 

If  thou  wilt  let  us  build, — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear; 

But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  the  gloom, 
The  abode  of  the  dead,  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     Ah  !  no : 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away; 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 

To  a  small  narrow  cave ;  and,  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?     Ah  !  no :  she  forgets 

The  charms  that  she  wielded  before ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 

The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 

The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas !  they  are  all  laid  aside ; 

And  here's  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allowed, 

But  the  long  winding-sheet,  and  the  fringe  of  the  shroud. 

To  Riches  ?     Alas !  'tis  in  vain : 

Who  hid,  in  their  turns  have  been  hid ; 

The  treasures  are  squandered  again  ; 

And  here,  in  the  grave,  are  all  metals  forbid, 
But  the  tinsel  that  shone  on  the  dark  coffin-lid. 


HERBERT    KNOWLE-S.  491 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board, 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 

Ah !  no  :  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above. 

Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side, 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  sorrow  ?     The  dead  cannot  grieve  ; 

Nor  a  sob,  nor  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 
Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve  : 

Ah !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love,  or  fear ; 

Peace,  peace,  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 
Ah !  no :  for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ; 

Beneath  the  cold  dead,  and  around  the  dark  stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  ensures  it  fulfilled  ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  Great  Sacrifice, 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  He  rose  to  the  skies, 


492  GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 


GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 

THE  Rt.  Rev.  George  Washington  Doane,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  was  born 
in  Trenton,  New  Jersey,  in  1799.  He  was  graduated  at  Union  Col- 
lege, Schenectady,  when  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  immediately  after 
commenced  the  study  of  theology.  He  was  ordained  deacon  by  Bishop 
Hobart,  in  1821,  and  priest  by  the  same  prelate  in  1823.  He  officia- 
ted in  Trinity  Church,  New  York,  three  years,  and,  in  1824,  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  Belles-Lettres  and  Oratory  in  Washington  Col- 
lege, Connecticut.  He  resigned  that  office  in  1828,  and  soon  after 
was  elected  rector  of  Trinity  Church,  in  Boston.  He  was  consecrated 
Bishop  of  the  Diocese  of  New  Jersey,  on  the  thirty-first  of  October, 
1832.  The  church  has  few  more  active,  efficient,  or  popular  prelates. 
Bishop  Doane's  "  Songs  by  the  Way,"  a  collection  of  poems,  chiefly 
devotional,  were  published  in  1824,  and  appear  to  have  been  mostly 
produced  during  his  college-life.  He  has  since,  from  time  to  time, 
written  poetry  for  festival-days  and  other  occasions,  but  has  published 
no  second  volume. 

THE    VOICE    OF    RAMA. 

"  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 
HEARD  ye,  from  Rama's  ruined  walls, 

That  voice  of  bitter  weeping  ! — 
Is  it  the  moan  of  fettered  slave, 

His  watch  of  sorrow  keeping  ? 
Heard  ye,  from  Rama's  wasted  plains, 

That  cry  of  lamentation  ! — 
Is  it  the  wail  of  Israel's  sons, 

For  Salem's  devastation  ? 

Ah,  no — a  sorer  ill  than  chains 

That  bitter  wail  is  waking, 
And  deeper  wo  than  Salem's  fall 

That  tortured  heart  is  breaking : 
'Tis  Rachel,  of  her  sons  bereft, 

Who  lifts  that  voice  of  weeping ; 
And  childless  are  the  eyes  that  there 

Their  watch  of  grief  are  keeping. 


GEORGE  W.  DOANE.  493 

O !  who  shall  tell  what  fearful  pangs 

That  mother's  heart  are  rending, 
As  o'er  her  infant's  little  grave 

Her  wasted  form  is  bending  ! 
From  many  an  eye  that  weeps  to-day 

Delight  may  beam  to-morrow ; 
But  she — her  precious  babe  is  not ! 

And  what  remains  but  sorrow  ? 

Bereaved  one !  I  may  not  chide 

Thy  tears  and  bitter  sobbing — 
Weep  on  !  'twill  cool  that  burning  biow, 

And  still  that  bosom's  throbbing : 
But  be  not  thine  such  grief  as  theirs 

To  whom  no  hope  is  given — 
Snatched  from  the  world,  its  sins  and  snares, 

Thy  infant  rests  in  heaven. 


THE    WATERS    OF    MARAH. 

"And  Moses  cried  unto  the  Lord,  and  the  Lord  showed  him  a  tree,  which. 
rhen.  he  had  cast  into  the  waters,  the  waters  were  made  sweet." 

BY  Marah's  stream  of  bitterness 

When  Moses  stood  and  cried, 
Jehovah  heard  his  fervent  prayer, 

And  instant  help  supplied  : 
The  prophet  sought  the  precious  tree 

With  prompt,  obedient  feet ; 
'Twas  cast  into  the  fount,  and  made 

The  bitter  waters  sweet. 

Whene'er  affliction  o'er  thee  sheds 

Its  influence  malign, 
Then,  sufferer,  be  the  prophet's  prayer 

And  prompt  obedience,  thine : 
'Tis  but  a  Marah's  fount,  ordained 

Thy  faith  in  God  to  prove, 
And  prayer  and  resignation  shall 

Its  bitterness  remove. 
42 


494  GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 


MOTHER.' 

WHAT  is  that,  Mother  ? — The  lark,  my  child  ! — 
The  morn  has  but  just  looked  out,  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  humble  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away,  with  the  dew  on  his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 

Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morn's  first  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise. 

What  is  that,  Mother  ? — The  dove,  my  son ! — 
And  that  low,  sweet  voice,  like  a  widow's  moan, 
Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant  and  pure,  by  that  lonely  nest, 
As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crystal  urn, 
For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return  : 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove,  , 
In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love. 

What  is  that,  Mother  ? — The  eagle,  boy ! — 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy  ; 
Firm,  on  his  own  mountain  vigor  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying, 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  sun, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward,  and  upward,  and  true  to  the  line. 

What  is  that,  Mother  ? — The  swan,,  my  love  ! — 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove, 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down,  by  himself  to  die ; 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 

Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home. 


GEORGE  W.  DOANE.  495 


7  A    CHERUB. 

"  Dear  Sir,  I  am  in  some  little  disorder  by  reason  of  the  death  of  a  little  child  of 
mine,  a  boy  that  lately  made  us  very  glad ;  but  now  he  rejoices  in  his  little  orbe, 
while  we  thinke,  and  sigh,  and  long  to  be  as  safe  as  he  is."— JEREMY  TA*  LOB  to 
EVELYN,  1656. 

BEAUTIFUL  thing !  with  thine  eye  of  light, 
And  thy  brow  of  cloudless  beauty  bright, 
Gazing  for  aye  on  the  sapphire  throne 
Of  Him  who  dwelleth  in  light  alone — 
Art  thou  hasting  now,  on  that  golden  wing, 
With  the  burning  seraph  choir  to  sing  ? 
Or  stooping  to  earth,  in  thy  gentleness, 
Our  darkling  path  to  cheer  and  bless  ? 

Beautiful  thing  !  thou  art  come  in  love, 
With  gentle  gales  from  the  world  above, 
Breathing  of  pureness,  breathing  of  bliss, 
Bearing  our  spirits  away  from  this, 
To  the  better  thoughts,  to  the  brighter  skies, 
Where  heaven's  eternal  sunshine  lies ; 
Winning  our  hearts  by  a  blessed  guile, 
With  that  infant  look  and  angel  smile. 

Beautiful  thing  !  thou  art  come  in  joy, 

With  the  look  and  the  voice  of  our  darling  boy — 

Him  that  was  torn  from  the  bleeding  hearts 

He  had  twined  about  with  his  infant  arts, 

To  dwell,  from  sin  and  sorrow  far, 

In  the  golden  orb  of  his  little  star : 

There  he  rejoiceth  in  light,  while  we 

Long  to  be  happy  and  safe  as  he. 

Beautiful  thing !  thou  art  come  in  peace, 

Bidding  our  doubts  and  our  fears  to  cease  ; 

Wiping  the  tears  which  unbidden  start 

From  that  bitter  fount  in  the  broken  heart, 

Cheering  us  still  on  our  lonely  way, 

Lest  our  spirits  should  faint,  or  our  feet  should  stray, 

Till,  risen  with  Christ,  we  come  to  be, 

Beautiful  thing,  with  our  boy  and  thee. 


496  GEORGE   W.  DOANE. 


LINES     BY     THE    LAKE     SIDE. 

THIS  placid  lake,  my  gentle  girl, 

Be  emblem  of  thy  life, 
As  full  of  peace  and  purity 

As  free  from  care  and  strife ; 
No  ripple  on  its  tranquil  breast 

That  dies  not  with  the  day, 
No  pebble  in  its  darkest  depths, 

But  quivers  in  its  ray. 

And  see,  how  every  glorious  form 

And  pageant  of  the  skies, 
Reflected  from  its  glassy  face, 

A  mirrored  image  lies  ; 
So  be  thy  spirit  ever  pure, 

To  God  and  virtue  given, 
And  thought,  and  word,  and  action  bear 

The  imagery  of  heaven. 


XTHE   CHRISTIAN'S   DEATH. 


LIFT  not  thou  the  wailing  voice, 

Weep  not,  'tis  a  Christian  dieth, — 
Up,  where  blessed  saints  rejoice, 

Ransomed  now,  the  spirit  flieth ; 
High,  in  heaven's  own  light,  she  dwelleth, 
Full  the  song  of  triumph  swelleth  ; 
Freed  from  earth,  and  earthly  failing, 
Lift  for  her  no  voice  of  wailing  ! 

Pour  not  thou  the  bitter  tear ; 

Heaven  its  book  of  comfort  opeth  ; 
Bids  thee  sorrow  not,  nor  fear, 

But,  as  one  who  alway  hopeth, 
Humbly  here  in  faith  relying, 
Peacefully  in  Jesus  dying, 


JOHN  KEBLE.  497 


Heavenly  joy  her  eye  is  flushing, — 
Why  should  thine  with  tears  be  gushing ! 

They  who  die  in  Christ  are  blessed, — 

Ours  be,  then,  no  thought  of  grieving  ! 

Sweetly  with  their  God  they  rest, 

All  their  toils  and  troubles  leaving : 

So  be  ours  the  faith  that  saveth, 

Hope  that  every  trial  braveth, 

Love  that  to  the  end  endureth, 

And,  through  Christ,  the  crown  secureth ! 


JOHN  KEBLE. 

MR.  KEBLE  was  educated  at  Oxford,  entered  holy  orders,  and  was 
for  some  time  pastor  of  a  rural  congregation,  to  whose  spiritual  inter- 
ests he  devoted  himself  with  untiring  ardor  and  affection.  He  was 
subsequently  elected  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford, 
and  he  has  been  distinguished  as  one  of  those  eminent  scholars  and 
divines,  among  whom  are  Newman,  Hook,  and  Pusey,  who  have  since 
shaken  the  religious  world  with  some  of  the  most  ingenious  and  able 
theological  discussions  of  modern  times,  in  the  Oxford  Tracts.  Mr. 
Keble  is  known  as  a  poet  chiefly  through  "  The  Christian  Year," 
which  was  first  published  in  1827.  It  has  passed  through  more  than 
thirty  editions  in  England,  and  has  been  several  times  reprinted  in  this 
country.  The  American  impressions  contain  a  preface  and  other  valu- 
able additions  by  the  author's  friend,  the  Rt.  Rev.  Dr.  Doane,  Bishop 
of  the  Episcopal  church  in  New  Jersey.  Besides  this,  he  has  written 
"  The  Child's  Christian  Year ;"  some  of  the  finest  pieces  in  the  "  Lyra 
Apostolica,"  and  a  new  translation  of  the  Psalms  of  David. 

MORNING. 

HUES  of  the  rich  unfolding  morn, 
That,  ere  the  glorious  sun  be  born, 
By  some  soft  touch  invisible, 
Around  his  path  are  taught  to  swell. 
42* 


498  JOHN    KEBLE. 


Thou  rustling  breeze,  so  fresh  and  gay, 
That  dancest  forth  at  opening  day, 
And  brushing  by  with  joyous  wing, 
Wakenest  each  little  leaf  to  sing. 

Ye  fragrant  clouds  of  dewy  steam, 
By  which  deep  grove  and  tangled  stream 
Pay  for  soft  rains,  in  season  given, 
Their  tribute  to  the  genial  heaven  ; 

Why  waste  your  treasures  of  delight 
Upon  our  thankless,  joyless  sight, 
Who,  day  by  day  to  sin  awake, 
Seldom  of  heaven  and  you  partake  ? 

Oh  !  timely  happy,  timely  wise, 
Hearts  that  with  rising  morn  arise  ; 
Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view, 
Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new. 

New  every  morning  is  the  love 
Our  wakening  and  uprising  prove  ; 
Through  sleep  and  darkness  safely  brought, 
Restored  to  life  and  power  and  thought. 

New  mercies  each  returning  day, 

Hover  around  us  while  we  pray  ; 

New  perils  past,  new  sins  forgiven, 

New  thoughts  of  God,  new  hopes  of  heaven. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes  will  lovelier  be, 
As  more  of  heaven  in  each  we  see  ; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Shall  dawn  on  every  cross  and  care. 

Only,  0  Lord,  in  thy  dear  love, 
Fit  us  for  perfect  rest  above  ; 
And  keep  us  this,  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  we  pray. 


JOHN    KEBLE.  499 


AUTUMN. 

RED  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting  sun, 
The  line  of  yellow  light  dies  fast  away 

That  crowned  the  eastern  copse  ;  and  chill  and  dun 
Falls  on  the  moon  the  brief  November  day. 

Now  the  tired  hunter  winds  a  parting  note, 

And  echo  bids  good-night  from  every  glade  . 

Yet  wait  awhile,  and  see  the  calm  leaves  float, 
Each  to  his  rest  beneath  their  parent  shade. 

How  like  decaying  life  they  seem  to  glide 

And  yet  no  second  spring  have  they  in  store ; 

But  where  they  fall,  forgotten,  to  abide, 

Is  all  their  portion,  and  they  ask  no  more. 

Soon  o'er  their  heads  blithe  April  airs  shall  sing, 

A  thousand  wild-flowers  round  them  shall  unfold ; 

The  green  buds  glisten  in  the  dews  of  spring, 
And  all  be  vernal  rapture  as  of  old. 

Unconscious,  they  in  waste  oblivion  lie  ; — 

In  all  the  world  of  busy  life  around 
No  thought  of  them  ;  in  all  the  bounteous  sky 

No  drop  for  them  of  kindly  influence  found. 

Man's  portion  is  to  die  and  rise  again, 

Yet  he  complains  ;  while  these,  unmurmuring,  part 
With  their  sweet  lives,  as  pure  from  sin  and  stain 

As  his,  when  Eden  held  his  virgin  heart. 

And  haply  half-unblamed,  his  murmuring  voice 

Might  sound  in  heaven,  were  all  his  second  life 

Only  the  first  renewed — the  heathen's  choice, 
A  round  of  listless  joy  and  weary  strife. 

For  dreary  were  this  earth,  if  earth  were  all, 

Though  brightened  oft  by  dear  affection's  kiss  : 

Who  for  the  spangles  wears  the  funeral  pall  ? 
But  catch  a  gleam  beyond  it,  and  'tis  bliss. 


500  JOHN    KEBLE. 


Heavy  and  dull  this  frame  of  limbs  and  heart : 

Whether  slow  creeping  on  cold  earth,  or  borne 

On  lofty  steed,  or  loftier  prow,  we  dart 

O'er  wave  or  field,  yet  breezes  laugh  to  scorn 

Our  puny  speed  ;  and  birds,  and  clouds  in  heaven, 
And  fish,  like  living  shafts  that  pierce  the  main. 

And  stars  that  shoot  through  freezing  air  at  even, — 
Who  but  would  follow,  might  he  break  his  chain  ? 

And  thou  shalt  break  it  soon ;  the  grovelling  worm 
Shall  find  his  wings,  and  soar  as  fast  and  free 

As  his  transfigured  Lord,  with  lightning  form 

And  snowy  vest — such  grace  He  won  for  thee, 

When  from  the  grave  He  sprung  at  dawn  of  morn, 

And  led  through  boundless  air  thy  conquering  road, 

Leaving  a  glorious  track,  where  saints,  new-born, 
Might  fearless  follow  to  their  blest  abode. 

But  first,  by  many  a  stern  and  fiery  blast, 

The  world's  rude  furnace  must  thy  blood  refine — 

And  many  a  gale  of  keenest  wo  be  passed, 

Till  every  pulse  beat  time  to  airs  divine, — 

Till  every  limb  obey  the  mounting  soul, 

The  mounting  soul  the  call  by  Jesus  given  : 

He  whom  the  stormy  heart  can  so  control, 

The  laggard  body  soon  will  waft  to  heaven. 


THE     FLOWERS     OF     THE     FIELD. 

SWEET  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 

Bathed  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew, 
What  more  than  magic  in  you  lies, 
To  fill  the  heart's  fond  view  ? 
In  childhood's  sports,  companions  gay, 
In  sorrow,  on  life's  downward  way, 
How  soothing !  in  our  last  decay 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 


JOHN    KEBLF.  501 


Relics  ye  are  of  Eden's  bowers, 

As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair, 

As  when  ye  crowned  the  sunshine  hours 
Of  happy  wanderers  there. 

Fallen  all  beside— the  world  of  life, 

How  is  it  stained  with  fear  and  strife  ! 

In  Reason's  world  what  storms  are  rife, 
What  passions  range  and  glare  ! 

But  cheerful  and  unchanged  the  while 

Your  first  and  perfect  form  ye  show, 
The  same  that  won  Eve's  matron  smile 

In  the  world's  opening  glow. 
The  stars  of  heaven  a  course  are  taught 
Too  high  above  our  human  thought ; — 
Ye  may  be  found  if  ye  are  sought, 
And  as  we  gaze,  we  know. 

Ye  dwell  beside  our  paths  and  homes, 

Our  paths  of  sin,  our  homes  of  sorrow, 
And  guilty  man,  where'er  he  roams, 

Your  innocent  mirth  may  borrow. 
The  birds  of  air  before  us  fleet, 
They  cannot  brook  our  shame  to  meet — 
But  we  may  taste  your  solace  sweet, 
And  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ye  fearless  in  your  nests  abide — 

Nor  may  we  scorn,  too  proudly  wise, 

Your  silent  lessons,  undescried 
By  all  but  lowly  eyes  : 

For  ye  could  draw  the  admiring  gaze 

Of  Him  who  worlds  and  hearts  surveys  ; 

Your  order  wild,  your  fragrant  maze, 
He  taught  us  how  to  prize. 

Ye  felt  your  Maker's  smile  that  hour, 

As  when  He  paused  and  owned  you  good ; 

His  blessing  on  earth's  primal  bower, 
Ye  felt  it  all  renewed. 


502  JOHN    KEBLE. 


What  care  ye  now,  if  winter's  storm 
Sweep  ruthless  o'er  each  silken  form  ? 
Christ's  blessing  at  your  heart  is  warm, 
Ye  fear  no  vexing  mood. 

Alas  !  of  thousand  bosoms  kind, 

That  daily  court  you  and  caress, 
How  few  the  happy  secret  find 

Of  your  calm  loveliness  ! 
"  Live  for  to-day  !  to-morrow's  light 
To-morrow's  cares  shall  bring  to  sight, 
Go  sleep  like  closing  flowers  at  night, 
And  heaven  thy  morn  will  bless." 


ADDRESS     TO     POETS. 

YE  whose  hearts  are  beating  high 
With  the  pulse  of  poesy, 
Heirs  of  more  than  royal  race, 
Framed,  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
God's  own  work  to  do  on  earth, 

(If  the  word  be  not  too  bold,) 
Giving  virtue  a  new  birth, 

And  a  life  that  ne'er  grows  old — 

Sovereign  masters  of  all  hearts  ! 
Know  ye  who  hath  set  your  parts  ? 
He,  who  gave  you  breath  to  sing, 
By  whose  strength  ye  sweep  the  string, 
He  hath  chosen  you  to  lead 

His  hosannas  here  below  ; — • 
Mount,  and  claim  your  glorious  meed ; 

Linger  not  with  sin  and  wo. 

But  if  ye  should  hold  your  peace, 
Deem  not  that  the  song  would  cease — - 
Angels  round  His  glory-throne, 
Stars,  His  guiding  hand  that  own, 


JOHN    KEBLE.  503 


Flowers,  that  grow  beneath  our  feet, 

Stones,  in  earth's  dark  womb  that  rest, 

High  and  low  in  choir  shall  meet, 
Ere  His  name  shall  be  unblest. 

Lord,  by  every  minstrel  tongue 
Be  thy  praise  so  duly  sung, 
That  thine  angels'  harps  may  ne'er 
Fail  to  find  fit  echoing  here ! 
We  the  while,  of  meaner  birth, 

Who  in  that  divinest  spell 
Dare  not  hope  to  join  on  earth, 

Give  us  grace  to  listen  well. 

But  should  thankless  silence  seal 
Lips  that  might  half-heaven  reveal — 
Should  bards  in  idol-hymns  profane 
The  sacred  soul-enthralling  strain, 
(As  in  this  bad  world  below 

Noblest  things  find  vilest  using,) 
Then,  thy  power  and  mercy  show, 

In  vile  things  noble  breath  infusing. 

Then  waken  into  sound  divine 

The  very  pavement  of  thy  shrine, 

Till  we,  like  heaven's  star-sprinkled  floor, 

Faintly  give  back  what  we  adore. 

Childlike  though  the  voices  be, 

And  untunable  the  parts, 
Thou  wilt  own  the  minstrelsy, 

If  it  flow  from  childlike  hearts. 


THE     UNITED     STATES; 

TYRE  of  the  farther  west !  be  thou  too  warned, 

Whose  eagle  wings  thine  own  green  world  o'erspread, 

Touching  two  oceans  :  wherefore  hast  thou  scorned 
Thy  fathers'  God,  O  proud  and  full  of  bread  ? 


504  JOHN    KEBLE. 


Why  lies  the  cross  unhonored  on  thy  ground, 

While  in  mid-air  thy  stars  and  arrows  flaunt  ? 

That  sheaf  of  darts,  will  it  not  fall  unbound, 

Except,  disrobed  of  thy  vain  earthly  vaunt, 
Thou  bring  it  to  be  blessed  where  saints  and  angels 
haunt? 

The  holy  seed,  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 

Is  rooted  here  and  there  in  thy  dark  woods ; 

But  many  a  rank  weed  round  it  grows  apace, 

And  Mammon  builds  beside  thy  mighty  floods, 

O'ertopping  nature,  braving  nature's  God ; 

Oh,  while  thou  yet  hast  room,  fair,  fruitful  land, 

Ere  war  and  want  have  stained  thy  virgin  sod, 
Mark  thee  a  place  on  high,  a  glorious  stand, 
Whence  truth  her  sign  may  make  o'er  forest,  lake, 
and  strand. 

Eastward,  this  hour,  perchance  thou  ^urn'st  thine  ear, 
Listening  if  haply  with  the  surging  sea, 

Blend  sounds  of  ruin  from  a  land  once  dear 

To  thee  and  Heaven.     0  trying  hour  for  thee  ! 

Tyre  mocked  when  Salem  fell ;  where  now  is  Tyre  ? 
Heaven  was  against  her.     Nations  thick  as  waves 

Burst  o'er  her  walls,  to  ocean  doomed  and  fire  ; 
And  now  the  tideless  water  idly  laves 
Her  towers,  and  lone  sands  heap  her  crowned  mer- 
chants' graves. 


ROBERT    POLLOK.  505 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 

THIS  poet  was  born  of  parents  in  humble  circumstances  at  Eagle- 
sham,  in  Ayrshire,  in  1799.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of 
Glasgow,  and  in  1827  took  orders  in  the  Scottish  Secession  Church. 
In  the  same  year  he  published  "  The  Course  of  Time,"  and,  on  account 
of  impaired  health,  left  Scotland  with  an  intention  to  proceed  to  Italy, 
but  died,  on  his  way,  at  Southampton,  on  the  fifteenth  of  September. 
The  "  Course  of  Time"  was  written  during  his  student-life,  and  when, 
unfriended  and  unknown,  he  offered  it  to  the  publishers  of  Edinburgh, 
none  of  them  were  willing  to  bring  it  out.  The  manuscript  was  for- 
tunately seen  by  Professor  Wilson,  who  quickly  perceived  its  merits, 
and  effected  an  arrangement  between  the  poet  and  Messrs.  Blackwood. 
which  resulted  in  its  publication.  The  plot  of  the  poem  is  very  sim- 
ple :  The  events  of  Time  are  finished,  and  a  being  from  some  remote 
world  arrives  in  Paradise,  where  he  inquires  the  meaning  of  the  hell  he 
has  seen  on  his  way  heavenward ;  a  bard,  once  of  our  earth,  sings  the 
story  of  humanity,  from  the  beginning  until  time  is  finished, 

the  righteous  saved,  the  wicked  damned, 

And  God's  eternal  government  approved. 

The  subject  is  a  noble  one,  and  in  the  poem  there  are  graphic  concep- 
tions and  passages  of  beauty  and  tenderness ;  but  it  is  disfigured  by 
amplifications  and  a  redundancy  of  moral  pictures ;  it  has  no  continuous 
interest,  and  in  parts  of  it  which  should  have  been  and  which  the  author 
endeavored  to  make  the  most  impressive,  particularly  those  in  which  he 
subjects  himself  to  a  comparison  with  Dante  and  Milton,  he  utterly 
failed. 

BYRON. 

ADMIRE  the  goodness  of  Almighty  God  ! 
He  riches  gave,  he  intellectual  strength, 
To  few,  and  therefore  none  commands  to  be 
Or  rich,  or  learned ;  nor  promises  reward 
Of  peace  to  these.     On  all,  He  moral  worth 
Bestowed,  and  moral  tribute  asked  from  all. 
And  who  that  could  not  pay  ?  who  born  so  poor, 
Of  intellect  so  mean,  as  not  to  know 
What  seemed  the  best ;  and,  knowing,  might  not  do  ? 
43 


506  ROBERT    POLLOK. 

As  not  to  know  what  God  and  conscience  bade, 
And  what  they  bade  not  able  to  obey  ? 
And  he,  who  acted  thus,  fulfilled  the  law 
Eternal,  and  its  promise  reaped  of  peace  ; 
Found  peace  this  way  alone :  who  sought  it  else, 
Sought  mellow  grapes  beneath  the  icy  pole, 
Sought  blooming  roses  on  the  cheek  of  death, 
Sought  substance  in  a  world  of  fleeting  shades. 

Take  one  example,  to  our  purpose  quite, 
A  man  of  rank,  and  of  capacious  soul, 
Who  riches  had  and  fame,  beyond  desire, 
An  heir  of  flattery,  to  titles  born, 
And  reputation,  and  luxurious  life  ; 
Yet,  not  content  with  ancestorial  name, 
Or  to  be  known  because  his  fathers  were, 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood, 
And,  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 
To  take  another  step.     Above  him  seemed, 
Alone,  the  mount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 
Of  canonized  bards  ;  and  thitherward, 
By  nature  taught,  and  inward  melody, 
In  prime  of  youth,  he  bent  his  eagle  eye. 
No  cost  was  spared.     What  books  he  wished,  he  read ; 
What  sage  to  hear,  ht  heard ;  what  scenes  to  see, 
He  saw.    And  first  in  rambling  schoolboy  days 
Britannia's  mountain- walks,  and  heath -girt  lakes, 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks, 
And  maids,  as  dewdrops  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
With  grandeur  filled,  and  melody,  and  love. 
Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wished. 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain  brows ; 
And  mused  on  battle-fields,  where  valor  fought 
In  other  days  ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 
With  years  ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous  wells, 
And  plucked  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets  plucked, 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste ; 


ROBERT    POLLOK.  507 


The  heavens  and  earth  of  every  country  saw. 
Where'er  the  old  inspiring  genii  dwelt, 
Aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
Thither  he  went,  and  meditated  there. 

He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard,  entranced ; 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 
Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed, 
And  opened  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 
Where  fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight, 
In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning,  rose, 
And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and  seemed  at  home 
Where  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though  great, 
Beneath  their  argument,  seemed  struggling  whiles ; 
He  from  above  descending  stooped  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought ;  and  proudly  stooped,  as  though 
It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     With  Nature's  self 
He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  ocean's  mane," 
And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks ; 
Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 
And  with  the  thunder  talked,  as  friend  to  friend ; 
And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist,  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  storm  in  vengeance,  seemed ; 
Then  turned,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  who  sung 
His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 
Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds,  his  sisters  were ; 
Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas  and  winds  and  storms 
His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deemed.     All  passions  of  all  men, 
The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and  severe ; 
All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane ; 
All  creeds,  all  seasons,  Time,  Eternity ; 
All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared,  by  man ; 
He  tossed  about,  as  tempest,  withered  leaves, 


508  ROBERT    POLLOK. 


Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  the  wreck  he  made. 
With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood, 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness ; 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself ; 
But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone, 
Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  ocean  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retired  in  pride, 
Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 

As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size, 
To  which  the  stars  did  reverence,  as  it  passed, 
So  he  through  learning  and  through  fancy  took 
His  flight  sublime,  and  on  the  loftiest  top 
Of  fame's  dread  mountain  sat ;  not  soiled  and  worn, 
As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labored  up ; 
But  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fair, 
He  looked,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came, 
And  perched  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneath. 
The  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much,  and  praised. 
Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  plight. 
Confounded  fell,  and  made  debasing  signs 
To  catch  his  eye,  and  stretched,  and  swelled  themselves 
To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 
Of  admiration  vast :  and  many,  too, 
Many  that  aimed  to  imitate  his  flight, 
With  weaker  wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made, 
And  gave  abundant  sport  to  after  days. 

Great  man !  the  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much, 
And  praised  ;  and  many  called  his  evil  good. 
Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness, 
And  kings  to  do  him  honor  took  delight. 
Thus,  full  of  titles,  flattery,  honor,  fame, 
Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition,  full, 
He  died.     He  died  of  what  ?     Of  wretchedness ; — 
Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every  trump 
Of  fame,  drank  early,  deeply  drank,  drank  draughts 


ROBERT  POLLOK.  509 


That  common  millions  might  have  quenched ;  then  died 

Of  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  drink. 

His  goddess,  Nature,  wooed,  embraced,  enjoyed, 

Fell  from  his  arms,  abhorred  ;  his  passions  died, 

Died,  all  but  dreary,  solitary  pride ; 

And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

As  some  ill-guided  bark,  well  built  and  tall, 

Which  angry  tides  cast  out  on  desert  shore, 

And  then,  retiring,  left  it  there  to  rot 

And  moulder  in  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven ; 

So  he,  cut  from  the  sympathies  of  life, 

And  cast  ashore  from  pleasure's  boisterous  surge, 

A  wandering,  weary,  worn,  and  wretched  thing, 

Scorched,  and  desolate,  and  blasted  soul, 

A  gloomy  wilderness  of  dying  thought, — 

Repined,  and  groaned,  and  withered  from  the  earth. 

His  groanings  filled  the  land  his  numbers  filled ; 

And  yet  he  seemed  ashamed  to  groan :  Poor  man ! — 

Ashamed  to  ask,  and  yet  he  needed  help. 

Proof  this,  beyond  all  lingering  of  doubt, 
That  not  with  natural  or  mental  wealth 
Was  God  delighted,  or  his  peace  secured ; 
That  not  in  natural  or  mental  wealth 
Was  human  happiness  or  grandeur  found. 
Attempt,  how  monstrous,  and  how  surely  vain ! 
With  things  of  earthly  sort,  with  aught  but  God, 
With  aught  but  moral  excellence,  truth,  and  love 
To  satisfy  and  fill  the  immortal  soul ! 
Attempt,  vain  inconceivably  !  attempt, 
To  satisfy  the  ocean  with  a  drop, 
To  marry  immortality  to  death, 
And  with  the  unsubstantial  shade  of  time, 
To  fill  the  embrace  of  all  eternity  ! 

PRAISE. 

HARPS  of  eternity !  begin  the  song : 
Redeemed,  and  angel  harps !  begin  to  God, 
Begin  the  anthem  ever  sweet  and  new, 
43* 


510  ROBERT    POLLOK. 


While  I  extol  Him,  holy,  just,  and  good, 

Life,  beauty,  light,  intelligence,  and  love ! 

Eternal,  uncreated,  infinite ! 

Unsearchable  Jehovah !  God  of  truth  ! 

Maker,  Upholder,  Governor  of  all : 

Thyself  unmade,  ungoverned,  unupheld. 

Mysterious  more  the  more  displayed,  where  still 

Upon  thy  glorious  throne  thou  sitt'st  alone : 

Hast  sat  alone,  and  shalt  forever  sit 

Alone  ;  invisible,  immortal  One  ! 

Behind  essential  brightness  unbeheld  ; 

Incomprehensible  !  what  weight  shall  weigh, 

What  measure  measure  Thee  ?     What  know  we  more 

Of  Thee,  what  need  to  know,  than  Thou  hast  taught, 

And  bidd'st  us  still  repeat  at  morn  and  even. 

God  !  Everlasting  Father  !  Holy  One  ! 

Our  God,  our  Father,  our  Eternal  all ! 

Source  whence  we  came,  and  whither  we  return  ; 

Who  made  the  heaven,  who  made  the  flowery  land  ; 

Thy  works  all  praise  Thee  :  all  thy  angels  praise  ; 

Thy  saints  adore,  and  on  thy  altars  burn 

The  fragrant  incense  of  perpetual  love. 

They  praise  Thee  now  :  their  hearts,  their  voices  praise, 

And  swell  the  rapture  of  the  glorious  song. 

Harp,  lift  thy  voice  on  high !  shout,  angels,  shout ! 

And  loudest,  ye  redeemed  !  "  Glory  to  God  !" 

And  to  the  Lamb  who  bought  us  with  his  blood, 

From  every  kindred,  nation,  people,  tongue  ; 

And  washed,  and  sanctified,  and  saved  our  souls  ; 

And  gave  us  robes  of  linen  pure,  and  crowns 

Of  life,  and  made  us  kings  and  priests  to  God. 

Shout  back  to  ancient  Time !     Sing  loud,  and  wave 

Your  palms  of  triumph  !  sing,  "  Where  is  thy  sting, 

0  Death  ?  where  is  thy  victory,  0  Grave  ?" 

Thanks  be  to  God  !  eternal  thanks,  who  gave 

Us  victory  through  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord. 

Harp,  lift  thy  voice  on  high  !  shout,  angels,  shout! 

And  loudest,  ye  redeemed  !  "  Glory  to  God  !" 


ROBERT    POLLOK.  511 


PRIDE. 

PRIDE,  self-adoring  pride,  was  primal  cause 

Of  all  sin  past,  all  pain,  all  wo  to  come. 

Unconquerable  pride !  first,  eldest  sin, 

Great  fountain-head  of  evil !  highest  source, 

Whence  flowed  rebellion  'gainst  the  Omnipotent, — 

Whence  hate  of  man  to  man,  and  all  else  ill. 

Pride  at  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart 

Lay,  and  gave  root  and  nourishment  to  all 

That  grew  above.     Great  ancestor  of  vice ! 

Hate,  unbelief,  and  blasphemy  of  God ; 

Envy  and  slander ;  malice  and  revenge  ; 

And  murder,  and  deceit,  and  every  birth 

Of  hateful  sort,  was  progeny  of  pride. 

It  was  the  ever-moving,  acting  force, 

The  constant  aim,  and  the  most  thirsty  wish 

Of  every  sinner  unrenewed,  to  be 

A  god ;  in  purple  or  in  rags,  to  have 

Himself  adored.     Whatever  shape  or  form 

His  actions  took,  whatever  phrase  he  threw 

About  his  thoughts,  or  mantle  o'er  his  life, 

To  be  the  highest  was  the  inward  cause 

Of  all ;  the  purpose  of  the  heart  to  be 

Set  up,  admired,  obeyed.     But  who  would  bow 

The  knee  to  one  who  served,  and  was  dependent  ? 

Hence  man's  perpetual  struggle,  night  and  day, 

To  prove  he  was  his  own  proprietor, 

And  independent  of  his  God  ;  that  what 

He  had  might  be  esteemed  his  own,  and  praised 

As  such.     He  labored  still,  and  tried  to  stand 

Alone,  unpropped,.to  be  obliged  to  none ; 

And,  in  the  madness  of  his  pride,  he  bade 

His  God  farewell,  and  turned  away  to  be 

A  god  himself ;  resolving  to  rely, 

Whatever  came,  upon  his  own  right  hand. 


512  JOHN    MOULTRIE. 


JOHN  MOULTRIE. 

JOHN  MOULTRIE  is  a  clergyman  of  the  established  church,  and  was 
born  in  the  winter  of  1799.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  where  he  was 
distinguished  for  his  fine  scholarship  and  excellent  taste,  and  enjoyed 
the  friendship  of  the  late  Winthrop  M.  Praed,  Mr.  Thomas  Babington 
Macaulay,  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  many  others  who  have  since  gained  dis- 
tinction in  the  world  of  letters.  One  of  his  earliest  poetic  efforts  was 
entitled  "  My  Brother's  Grave."  It  was  published  when  he  was  nine- 
teen years  old. 

XTHE     THREE     SONS. 

I  HAVE  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years  old, 
With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and  mind  of  gentle  mould. 
They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his  ways  appears, 
That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  beyond  his  childish 

years. 

I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be,  I  know  his  face  is  fair, 
And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet  and  serious  air : 
I  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond,  I  know  he  loveth  me, 
But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful  fervency  : 
But  that  which  others  most  admire,  is  the  thought  which  fills 

his  mind, 

The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  everywhere  doth  find. 
Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when  we  together  walk ; 
He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks  as  children  talk. 
Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports,  dotes  not  on  bat  or  ball, 
But  looks  on  manhood's  ways  and  works,  and  aptly  mimics  all. 
His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes  perplexed 
With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and  thoughts  about 

the  next. 

He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother's  knee,  she  teacheth  him  to  pray, 
And  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are  the  words  which 

he  will  say. 


JOHN    MOULTRIE.  513 


Oh,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  manhood's  years  like 

me, 

A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  will  be  : 
And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his  thoughtful  brow, 
I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  I  to  lose  him  now. 

I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child  of  three ; 

I'll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little  features  be, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he  prattles  on  my 

knee: 

I  do  not  think  his  light  blue  eye  is,  like  his  brother's,  keen, 
Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought  as  his  hath  ever  been  ; 
But  his  little  heart's  a  fountain  pure  of  kind  and  tender  feeling, 
And  his  every  look's  a  gleam  of  light,  rich  depths  of  love  re- 
vealing. 
When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk,  who  pass  us  in  the 

street, 
Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks  so  mild  and 

sweet. 

A  playfellow  is  he  to  all,  and  yet,  with  cheerful  tone, 
Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to  sport  alone. 
His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden  home  and  hearth, 
To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten  all  our  mirth. 
Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant  his  heart  may 

prove 

As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now  for  earthly  love : 
And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching  eyes  must  dim, 
God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we  shall  lose  in  him. 

I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son  ;  his  age  I  cannot  tell, 

For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months  where  he  is  gone  to 

dwell. 

To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant  smiles  were  given, 
And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  went  to  live  in  heaven. 
I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he  weareth  now, 
Nor  guess  how  bright  a  glory  crowns  his  shining  seraph  brow. 
The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss  which  he  doth 

feel, 
Are  numbered  with  the  secret  things  which  God  will  not  reveal. 


514  JOHN    MOULTRIE. 


But  I  know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that  he  is  now  at  rest, 
Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Saviour's  loving  breast. 
I  know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary  load  of  flesh, 
But  his  sleep  is  blessed  with  endless  dreams  of  joy  forever 

fresh. 

I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath  their  glittering  wings, 
And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes  of  heaven's  divinest 

things. 

I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe,  (his  mother  dear  and  I,) 
Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  every  eye. 
Whate'er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss  can  never  cease  ; 
Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his  is  certain  peace. 
It  may  be  that  the  tempter's  wiles  their  souls  from  bliss  may 

sever, 

But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be  ours  forever. 
When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and  what  we  still  must 

be,— 
When  we  muse  on  that  world's  perfect  bliss,  and  this  world's 

misery, — 
When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and  feel  this  grief  and 

pain, — 
Oh  !  we'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have  him  here  again. 

TO    THE    REV.    DR.    CHALMERS. 

WELL  hast  thou  reasoned,  Chalmers,  on  the  deep 

And  awful  mystery  of  redeeming  love  ; 

With  argument  profound  intent  to  prove 
How  the  Omniscient  Mind  doth  ever  keep 
Protective  watch  on  heaven's  empyreal  steep, 

O'er  suns  and  systems  through  all  space  that  move ; 

While  yet  its  sleepless  eyes  minutely  rove 
Through  lowliest  dwellings  in  which  mortals  sleep. 

Methinks,  great  Teacher,  of  that  Mind  thine  own 
Yields  a  faint  emblem,  who  hast  power  to  soar 

On  wing  seraphic  towards  the  Eternal  Throne, 
And  heaven  and  hell's  mysterious  depths  explore ; 

Yet  on  the  meanest  cot  where  poor  men  srroan 
Deignest  thy  wisdom's  healing  light  to  pour. 


GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE.  515 


GEORGE   W.   BETHUNE. 

THE  Rev.  George  W.  Betnune,  }.  D.,  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and 
is  widely  known  as  one  of  the  finest  scholars  and  most  eloquent 
preachers  in  the  American  churches.  He  is  author  of  several  vol- 
umes of  literary  and  religious  discourses,  which  are  as  much  distin- 
guished as  his  poems  by  a  genial,  loving  spirit,  and  a  classical  elegance 
of  diction.  A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Philadelphia  in 
1847.  Dr.  Bethune  has  been  for  several  years  a  minister  of  the  Re- 
formed Dutch  Church  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  now  resides. 

XTO    MY    MOTHER. 

MY  mother  ! — Manhood's  anxious  brow 

And  sterner  cares  have  long  been  mine  ; 

Yet  turn  I  to  thee  fondly  now, 

As  when  upon  thy  bosom's  shrine 

My  infant  griefs  were  gently  hushed  to  rest, 

And  thy  low-whispered  prayers  my  slumber  blessed. 

I  never  call  that  gentle  name, 

My  mother  !  but  I  am  again 
E'en  as  a  child  ;  the  very  same 

That  prattled  at  thy  knee ;  and  fain 
Would  I  forget,  in  momentary  joy, 
That  I  no  more  can  be  thy  happy  boy  ; — 

The  artless  boy,  to  whom  thy  smile 

Was  sunshine,  and  thy  frown,  sad  night, 

(Though  rare  that  frown,  and  brief  the  while 
It  veiled  from  me  thy  loving  light ;) 

For  well-conned  task,  ambition's  highest  bliss, 

To  win  from  thine  approving  lips  a  kiss. 

I've  loved  through  foreign  lands  to  roam, 
And  gazed  o'er  many  a  classic  scene ; 

Yet  would  the  thought  of  that  dear  home, 
Which  once  was  ours,  oft  intervene, 

And  bid  me  close  again  my  weary  eye 

To  think  of  thee,  and  those  sweet  days  gone  by. 


516  GEORGE    W.   Biri'iff  .ViJ. 


That  pleasant  home  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
Where,  by  the  Hudson's  verdant  side 

My  sisters  wove  their  jasmine  bowers, 
And  he,  we  loved,  at  eventide 

Would  hastening  come  from  distant  toil  to  bless 
•  Thine,  and  his  children's  radiant  happiness. 

Alas,  the  change  !  the  rattling  car 

On  flint-paved  streets  profanes  the  spot, 

Where  o'er  the  sod,  we  sowed  the  Star 
Of  Bethlehem,  and  Forget-me-not. 

Oh,  wo  to  Mammon's  desolating  reign ! 

We  ne'er  shall  find  on  earth  a  home  again  ! 

I've  pored  o'er  many  a  yellow  page 
Of  ancient  wisdom,  and  have  won, 

Perchance,  a  scholar's  name — but  sage 
Or  bard  have  never  taught  thy  son 

Lessons  so  dear,  so  fraught  with  holy  truth, 

As  those  his  mother's  faith  shed  on  his  youth. 

If,  by  the  Saviour's  grace  made  meet, 
My  God  will  own  my  life  and  love, 

Methinks,  when  singing  at  His  feet, 
Amid  the  ransomed  throng  above, 

Thy  name  upon  my  glowing  lips  shall  be, 

And  I  will  bless  that  grace  for  heaven  and  thee. 

For  thee  and  heaven  ;  for  thou  didst  tread 
The  way  that  leads  me  heavenward,  and 

My  often  wayward  footsteps  led 

In  the  same  path  with  patient  hand ; 

And  when  I  wandered  far,  thy  earnest  call 

Restored  my  soul  from  sin's  deceitful  thrall. 

I  have  been  blessed  with  other  ties, 

Fond  ties  and  true,  yet  never  deem 

That  I  the  less  thy  fondness  prize ; 

No,  mother  !  in  my  warmest  dream 

Of  answered  passion,  through  this  heart  of  mine 

One  chord  will  vibrate  to  no  name  but  thine. 


GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE.  517 

Mother  !  thy  name  is  widow — well 

I  know  no  love  of  mine  can  fill 
The  waste-place  of  thy  heart,  or  dwell 

Within  one  sacred  recess  :  still 
Lean  on  the  faithful  bosom  of  thy  son, 
My  parent,  thou  art  mine,  my  only  one  ! 

NIGHT      STUDY. 

I  AM  alone  ;  and  yet 
In  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 

Around  me,  as  were  met 
A  crowd  of  viewless  wings  ;  I  hear  a  gush 
Of  uttered  harmonies — heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  Mysteries, 
Sweeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Beckoning  me  to  arise, 
And  go  forth  from  my  very  self,  and  fly 
With  you  far  in  the  unknown,  unseen  immense 
Of  worlds  beyond  our  sphere — What  are  ye  ?  Whence  ? 

Ye  eloquent  voices, 
Now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  flute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices 
The  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit ; 
Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 
My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 

I  know  you  now — I  see 
With  more  than  natural  light — ye  are  the  good, 

The  wise  departed — ye 

Are  come  from  heaven  to  claim  your  brotherhood 
With  mortal  brother,  struggling  in  the  strife 
And  chains,  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Ye  hover  o'er  the  page 
Ye  traced  in  ancient  days  with  glorious  thought 

For  many  a  distant  age  ; 
Ye  love  to  watch  the  inspiration  caught 
44 


518  GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE. 

From  your  sublime  examples,  and  so  cheer 
The  fainting  student  to  your  high  career. 

Ye  come  to  nerve  the  soul 
Like  him  who  near  the  Atoner  stood,  when  He, 

Trembling,  saw  around  him  roll 
The  wrathful  potents  of  Gethsemane, 
With  courage  strong :  the  promise  ye  have  known 
And  proved,  rapt  for  me  from  the  Eternal  throne. 

Still  keep !  0,  keep  me  near  you, 
Compass  me  round  with  your  immortal  wings  : 

Still  let  my  glad  soul  hear  you 
Striking  your  triumphs  from  your  golden  strings 
Until  with  you  I  mount,  and  join  the  song, 
An  angel,  like  you,  'mid  the  white-robed  throng. 

LINES 
WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  THORWALDSEN's  BAS-RELIEF  REPRESENTING  NIGHT. 

YES  !  bear  them  to  their  rest  ; 
The  rosy  babe,  tired  with  the  glare  of  day, 
The  prattler  fallen  asleep  e'en  in  his  play, 
Clasp  them  to  thy  soft  breast, 

0  Night, 
Bless  them  in  dreams  with  a  deep  hushed  delight. 

Yet  must  they  wake  again, 
Wake  soon  to  all  the  bitterness  of  life, 
The  pang  of  sorrow,  the  temptation  strife, 

Ay,  to  the  conscience-pain — 

0  Night, 
Canst  thou  not  take  with  them  a  longer  flight  ? 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  far — 
E'en  now  all  innocent — before  they  know 
The  taint  of  sin,  its  consequence  of  wo, 

The  world's  distracting  jar, 

O  Night, 
To  some  ethereal,  holier,  happier  height  ? 


GEORGE  W.  BETHUNE.  519 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  up 
Through  starlit  skies,  far  from  this  planet  dim 
And  sorrowful,  e'en  while  they  sleep,  to  Him 

Who  drank  for  us  the  cup, 

0  Night, 
The  cup  of  wrath  for  hearts  in  faith  contrite  ? 

To  Him,  for  them  who  slept 
A  babe  all  lowly  on  His  mother's  knee, 
And  from  that  hour  to  cross-crowned  Calvary, 

In  all  our  sorrows  wept, 

O  Night, 
That  on  our  souls  might  dawn  Heaven's  cheering  light. 

So,  lay  their  little  heads 
Close  to  that  human  breast,  with  love  divine 
Deep  beating,  while  his  arras  immortal  twine 

Around  them  as  he  sheds, 

O  Night, 
On  them  a  brother's  grace  of  God's  own  boundless  might. 

Let  them  immortal  wake 
Among  the  breathless  flowers  of  Paradise, 
Where  angel-songs  of  welcome  with  surprise 

This  their  last  sleep  may  break, 

0  Night, 
And  to  celestial  joy  their  kindred  souls  invite. 

There  can  come  no  sorrow, 
The  brow  shall  know  no  shade,  the  eye  no  tears, 
Forever  young  through  heaven's  eternal  years, 

In  one  unfading  morrow, 

0  Night, 
Nor  sin,  nor  age,  nor  pain  their  cherub-beauty  blight. 

Would  we  could  sleep  as  they, 
So  stainless  and  so  calm,  at  rest  with  thee, 
And  only  wake  in  immortality  ! 

Bear  us  with  them  away, 

0  Night, 
To  that  ethereal,  holier,  happier  height. 


520  WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 


WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 

THE  Rev.  William  Croswell,  D.  D.,  is  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 

Croswell,  of  New  Haven,  and  was  educated  at  Yale  College,  where  he 
was  graduated  in  the  summer  of  1824.  He  was  subsequently,  for  two 
years,  associated  with  Dr.  Doane,  now  Bishop  of  New  Jersey,  in  the 
editorship  of  the  "  Episcopal  Watchman,"  at  Hartford,  after  which  he 
removed  to  Boston,  and  then  to  Auburn,  in  the  western  part  of  the 
state  of  New  York.  He  is  now  rector  of church  in  New  Ha- 
ven. Bishop  Doane,  in  a  note  to  his  edition  of  Keble's  "  Christian 
Year,"  remarks  that  "  he  has  more  unwritten  poetry  in  him"  than  any 
man  he  knows.  His  published  poems  are  characterized  by  an  elegant 
fancy  and  a  fine  vein  of  religious  sentiment. 

THE     SYNAGOGUE. 

"  But  even  unto  this  day,  when  Moses  is  read,  the  veil  is  upon  their  heart.  Nev 
ertheless,  when  it  shall  turn  to  the  Lord,  the  veil  shall  be  taken  away."— ST.  PAUL 

I  SAW  them  in  their  synagogue, 

As  in  their  ancient  day, 
And  never  from  my  memory 

The  scene  will  fade  away, 
For,  dazzling  on  my  vision,  still 

The  latticed  galleries  shine 
With  Israel's  loveliest  daughters, 

In  their  beauty  half- divine ! 

It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve, — 

The  solitary  light 
Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day, 

A  lustre  nothing  bright ; 
On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance 

It  falls  with  saddening  tinge, 
And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's 

Phylacteries  and  fringe. 

The  two-leaved  doors  slide  slow  apart 

Before  the  eastern  screen, 
As  rise  the  Hebrew  harmonies, 

With  chanted  prayers  between, 


WILLIAM  CROSWELL.  521 

And  mid  the  tissued  vails  disclosed, 

Of  many  a  gorgeous  dye, 
Enveloped  in  their  jewelled  scarfs, 

The  sacred  records  lie. 

Robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vest, 

A  silvery-headed  man 
With  voice  of  solemn  cadence  o'er 

The  backward  letters  ran  ; 
And  often  yet  methinks  I  see 

The  glow  and  power  that  sate 
Upon  his  face,  as  forth  he  spread 

The  roll  immaculate. 

And  fervently  that  hour  I  prayed, 

That  from  the  mighty  scroll 
Its  light,  in  burning  characters, 

Might  break  on  every  soul, 
That  on  their  hardened  hearts  the  veil 

Might  be  no  longer  dark, 
But  be  forever  rent  in  twain 

Like  that  before  the  ark. 

For  yet  the  tenfold  film  shall  fall, 

0,  Judah  !  from  thy  sight, 
And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read 

Thy  testimonies  right, 
When  thou,  with  all  Messiah's  signs. 

In  Christ  distinctly  seen, 
Shall,  by  Jehovah's  nameless  name, 

Invoke  the  Nazarene. 

THE     CLOUDS. 

"  Cloud  land  !    Gorgeous  land  !"— COLEBIDQK. 

I  CANNOT  look  above  and  see 

Yon  high-piled,  pillowy  mass 
Of  evening  clouds,  so  swimmingly 

In  gold  and  purple  pass, 
44* 


WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 


And  think  not,  Lord,  how  thou  wast  seen 

On  Israel's  desert  way, 
Before  them,  in  thy  shadowy  screen, 

Pavilioned  all  the  day  ! 

Or,  of  those  robes  of  gorgeous  hue 

Which  the  Redeemer  wore, 
When,  ravished  from  his  followers'  view, 

Aloft  his  flight  he  bore, 
When  lifted,  as  on  mighty  wing, 

He  curtained  his  ascent, 
And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  went  triumphing 

Above  the  firmament. 

Is  it  a  trail  of  that  same  pall 

Of  many  colored  dyes, 
That  high  above,  o'ermantling  all, 

Hangs  midway  down  the  skies  — 
Or  borders  of  those  sweeping  folds 

Which  shall  be  all  unfurled 
About  the  Saviour,  when  he  holds 

His  judgment  on  the  world  ? 

For  in  like  manner  as  he  went,  — 

My  soul,  hast  thou  forgot  ?  — 
Shall  be  his  terrible  descent, 

When  man  expecteth  not  ! 
Strength,  Son  of  man,  against  that  hour, 

Be  to  our  spirits  given, 
When  thou  shalt  come  again  with  power, 

Upon  the  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

THE     ORDINAL. 

ALAS  for  me  if  I  forget 

The  memory  of  that  day 
Which  fills  my  waking  thoughts,  nor  yet 

E'en  sleep  can  take  away  ! 


WILLIAM  CROSWELL.  523 

In  dreams  I  still  renew  the  rites 

Whose  strong  but  mystic  chain 
The  spirit  to  its  God  unites, 

And  none  can  part  again. 

How  oft  the  bishop's  form  I  see, 

And  hear  that  thrilling  tone 
Demanding  with  authority 

The  heart  for  God  alone  ! 
Again  I  kneel  as  then  I  knelt, 

While  he  above  me  stands. 
And  seem  to  feel,  as  then  I  felt, 

The  pressure  of  his  hands. 

Again  the  priests  in  meet  array, 

As  my  weak  spirit  fails, 
Beside  me  bend  them  down  to  pray 

Before  the  chancel-rails  ; 
As  then,  the  sacramental  host 

Of  God's  elect  are  by, 
When  many  a  voice  its  utterance  lost, 

And  tears  dimmed  many  an  eye. 

As  then  they  on  my  vision  rose, 

The  vaulted  aisles  I  see, 
And  desk  and  cushioned  book  repose 

In  solemn  sanctity, — 
The  mitre  o'er  the  marble  niche, 

The  broken  crook  and  key, 
That  from  a  bishop's  tomb  shone  rich 

With  polished  tracery ; 

The  hangings,  the  baptismal  font, 

All,  all,  save  me  unchanged, 
The  holy  table,  as  was  wont, 

With  decency  arranged ; 
The  linen  cloth,  the  plate,  the  cup, 

Beneath  their  covering  shine, 
Ere  priestly  hands  are  lifted  up 

To  bless  the  bread  and  wine. 


524  WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 


The  solemn  ceremonial  past, 

And  I  am  set  apart 
To  serve  the  Lord,  from  first  to  last, 

With  undivided  heart ; 
And  I  have  sworn,  with  pledges  dire, 

Which  God  ana  man  have  heard, 
To  speak  the  holy  truth  entire, 

In  action  and  in  word 

0  Thou,  who  in  thy  holy  place 

Hast  set  thine  orders  three, 
Grant  me,  thy  meanest  servant,  grace 

To  win  a  good  degree  ; 
That  so,  replenished  from  above, 

And  in  my  office  tried, 
Thou  mayst  be  honored,  and  in  love 

Thy  church  be  edified ! 


CHRISTMAS     EVE. 

THE  thickly- woven  boughs  they  wreathe 

Through  every  hallowed  fane 
A  soft,  reviving  odor  breathe 

Of  summer's  gentle  reign ; 
And  rich  the  ray  of  mild  green  light 

Which,  like  an  emerald's  glow, 
Comes  struggling  through  the  latticed  height 

Upon  the  crowds  below. 

0,  let  the  streams  of  solemn  thought 

Which  in  those  temples  rise, 
From  deeper  sources  spring  than  aught 

Dependent  on  the  skies  : 
Then,  though  the  summer's  pride  departs. 

And  winter's  withering  chill 
Rests  on  the  cheerless  woods,  our  hearts 

Shall  be  unchanging  still. 


WILLIAM  CROSWELL.  525 


THE     DEATH     OF     STEPHEN. 

WITH  awful  dread  his  murderers  shook, 

As,  radiant  and  serene, 
The  lustre  of  his  dying  look 

.    Was  like  an  angel's  seen ; 
Or  Moses*  face  of  paly  light, 

When  down  the  mount  he  trod, 
All  glowing  from  the  glorious  sight 

And  presence  of  his  God. 

To  us,  with  all  his  constancy, 

Be  his  rapt  vision  given, 
To  look  above  by  faith,  and  see 

Revealments  bright  of  heaven. 
And  power  to  speak  our  triumphs  out, 

As  our  last  hour  draws  near, 
While  neither  clouds  of  fear  nor  doubt 

Before  our  view  appear. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  OFFERING. 

WE  come  not  with  a  costly  store, 

0  Lord,  like  them  of  old, 
The  masters  of  the  starry  lore, 

From  Ophir's  shore  of  gold  : 
No  weepings  of  the  incense  tree 

Are  with  the  gifts  we  bring, 
No  odorous  myrrh  of  Araby 

Blends  with  our  offering. 

But  still  our  love  would  bring  its  best, 

A  spirit  keenly  tried 
By  fierce  affliction's  fiery  test, 

And  seven  times  purified : 
The  fragrant  graces  of  the  mind, 

The  virtues  that  delight 
To  give  their  perfume  out,  will  find 

Acceptance  in  thy  sight. 


526  JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER, 

A  MEMBER  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
poets  of  the  age,  was  born  in  1808,  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  where 
he  now  resides.  A  complete  collection  of  his  works  has  just  teen 
published  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  with  illustrative  engravings,  by 
B.  B.  Mussey  &  Co.  of  Boston. 

PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judea !  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng ; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
A0n  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  ! — in  my  spirit  I  hear 

Thy  waters,  Gennesaret,  chime  on  my  ear  ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  His  sandals  was  thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene  ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat- crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  0  dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where,  swollen  and  strong, 
Thy  river,  0  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along  ; 
Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Jehovah  in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

There,  dowrn  from  his  mountains  stern  Zebulon  came, 
And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's  son ! 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER.  527 


There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which  rang 
To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hiil-sit3  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around  ana  the  valleys  between ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  tii«re 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his  feet  ? 

I  tread  where  the  twelve  in  their  wayfaring  trod : 
I  stand  whdfre  they  stood  with  the  chosen  of  God — 
Where  His  blessings  were  heard  and  his  lessons  were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healingwas  wrought. 

0,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came — 
These  hills  He  toiled  over  in  grief,  are  the  same — 
The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  wayside  still  flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on  his  brow 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her  feet; 
For  the  crown  of  her  p.ide  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God? 
Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  Him  ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among  men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves  of  the  sea, 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  ! 


528  JOHN    G.     VVIIJTT1EK. 


And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  he  bowed  him  to  bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer : 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here ; 
And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

0,  the  outward  hath  gone ! — but,  in  glory  and  power, 
The  Spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  ! 

THE     FEMALE     MARTYR. 

MARY  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  Sister  of  Charity,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during 

the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  Cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  on  the  sick. 

"  BRING  out  your  dead !"  the  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet ; 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet, 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What !  only  one !"  the  brutal  hackman  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof -fall ! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die ! 

Onward  it  rolled  ;  while  oft  the  driver  stayed, 
And  hoarsely  clamored,  "  Ho!  bring  out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  : 

"  Toss  in  your  load  !"  and  it  was  done. 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 

Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one — 

Stranger  and  friend — the  evil  and  the  just, 

Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER.  529 


And  thou,  young  martyr  !  tbou  wast  there : 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God ; 

Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer,  there  shall  be, 
In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 

A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 

As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 

At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 

Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well, 
Enduring,  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  where 

The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

0,  high-souled  martyr !  thou  wast  there, 

Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air 
Poison  with  every  breath  ; 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

From  the  wrung  dying  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 
Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, 
A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 

Of  suffering  humankind ! 
Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 
To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 
45 


530  JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 

How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 

In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 

And  the  o'erhovering  spoiler  wore,  the  while, 

An  angel's  features,  a  deliverer's  smile ! 

A  blessed  task  !  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Ere  being's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow. 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear : 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard 

The  joys  prepared,  the  promised  bliss  above, 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 

A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 
The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrouerht, 

J  O        ' 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 

The  fire  of  poesy — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors ;  thine 
Shall  time  unto  eternity  consign. 

Yea :  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall — 

The  herald's  pride  of  long  renown, 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown — 
Perishing  glories  all ! 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 

Shall  live  in  heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part ! 


SIR    ROBERT    GRANT.  531 


SIR  ROBERT  GRANT. 

THE  Rt.  Hon.  Sir  Robert  Grant,  late  governor  of  Bombay,  was 
of  one  of  the  most  ancient  families  of  Scotland,  and  was  a  brother  of 
the  present  Lord  Glenelg.  He  died  in  1838,  and  a  collection  of  his 
"  Sacred  Poems"  was  published  soon  after  in  London. 

LINES. 

0  SAVIOUR,  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kindness, 
Has  chastened  my  wanderings  and  guided  my  way, 
Adored  be  the  power  which  illumined  my  blindness, 
And  weaned  me  from  phantoms  that  smiled  to  betray. 

Enchanted  with  all  that  was  dazzling  and  fair, 

1  followed  the  rainbow ;  I  caught  at  the  toy, 
And  still  in  displeasure,  thy  goodness  was  there, 
Disappointing  the  hope,  and  defeating  the  joy. 

The  blossom  blushed  bright,  but  a  worm  was  below ; 
The  moonlight  shone  fair,  there  was  blight  in  the  beam ; 
Sweet  whispered  the  breeze,  but  it  whispered  of  wo  ; 
And  bitterness  flowed  in  the  soft-flowing  stream. 

So,  cured  of  my  folly,  yet  cured  but  in  part, 
I  turned  to  the  refuge  thy  pity  displayed ; 
And  still  did  this  eager  and  credulous  heart 
Weave  visions  of  promise  that  bloomed  but  to  fade. 

I  thought  that  the  course  of  the  prilgrim  to  heaven 
Would  be  bright  as  the  summer,  and  glad  as  the  morn ; 
Thou  show'dst  me  the  path  ;  it  was  dark  and  uneven, 
All  rugged  with  rocks,  and  all  tangled  with  thorn. 

I  dreamed  of  celestial  reward  and  renown ; 
I  grasped  at  the  triumph  which  blesses  the  brave ; 
I  asked  for  the  palm-branch,  the  robe  and  the  crown ; 
I  asked — and  thou  show'dst  me  a  cross  and  a  grave. 

Subdued  and  instructed,  at  length,  to  thy  will, 
My  hopes  and  my  longings  I  fain  would  resign  ; 
O  give  me  the  heart  that  can  wait  and  be  still, 
Nor  know  of  a  wish  or  a  pleasure  but  thine. 


532  SIR    ROBERT    GRANT. 


There  are  mansions  exempted  from  sin  and  from  wo. 
But  they  stand  in  a  region  by  mortals  untrod  ; 
There  are  rivers  of  joy — but  they  roll  not  below  ; 
There  is  rest — but  it  dwells  in  the  presence  of  God, 

TRUST     IN     THE     SAVIOUR. 

WHEN  gathering  clouds  around  I  view, 
And  d  ys  are  dark,  and  friends  are  few  ; 
On  him  I  lean,  who,  not  in  vain, 
Experienced  every  human  pain. 
He  sees  my  griefs,  allays  my  fears, 
And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray, 
From  heavenly  wisdom's  narrow  way, 
To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue, 
Or  do  the  thing  I  would  not  do ; 
Still  He  who  felt  temptation's  power, 
Will  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 

If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Despised  by  those  I  prized  too  well ; 
He  shall  his  pitying  aid  bestow, 
Who  felt  on  earth  severer  wo ; 
At  once  betrayed,  denied,  or  fled, 
By  those  who  shared  his  daily  bread. 

When  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
And,  sore  dismayed,  my  spirit  dies ; 
Yet,  He,  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry, 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 

PRAYER. 

SAVIOUR  !  when  in  dust  to  thee, 
Low  we  bow  the  adoring  knee, 
When  repentant  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  streaming  eyes, — 


SIR    ROBERT    GRANT.  533 

0,  by  all  thy  pains  and  wo, 
Suffered  once  for  man  below, 
Bending  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

By  thy  helpless  infant  years, 
By  thy  life  of  wants  and  tears, 
By  thy  days  of  sore  distress 
In  the  savage  wilderness, — 
By  the  dread  permitted  hour, 
Of  the  insulting  tempter's  power, — 
Turn,  0  turn  a  pitying  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany ! 

By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept, 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept, — 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flowed 
Over  Salem's  loved  abode, — 
By  the  anguished  sigh  that  told 
Treachery  lurked  within  thy  fold, — 
From  thy  seat  above  the  sky 
Hear  our  solemn  litany ! 

By  thine  hour  of  dire  despair, 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer, 
By  the  cross,  the  nail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn, — 
By  the  gloom  that  veiled  the  skies 
O'er  the  dreadful  sacrifice, — 
Listen  to  our  humble  cry, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  the  deep  expiring  groan, 
By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone, 
By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God, — 
O,  from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty  reascended  Lord, 
Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  litany ! 
45* 


534  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

MR.  BRYANT  was  born  in  Cummington,  Massachusetts,  in  1794.  He 
was  educated  for  the  bar,  but  after  passing  ten  years  in  the  courts  he 
abandoned  an  uncongenial  profession  and  removed  to  New  York,  where, 
in  1826,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  the  Evening  Post,  with  which  he 
has  ever  since  been  connected.  He  wrote  the  poem  entitled  ''  Thana- 
topsis"  in  his  eighteenth  year,  and  the  annals  of  literary  composition 
furnish  nothing  equal  to  it  produced  at  the  same  age.  Mr.  Bryant  is 
unquestionably  the  greatest  poet  who  now  writes  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. In  1832  a  collection  of  all  the  poems  Mr.  Bryant  had  then 
written  was  published  in  New  York ;  it  was  soon  after  reprinted  in 
Boston,  and  a  copy  of  it  reaching  Washington  Irving,  who  was  then  in 
England,  he  caused  it  to  be  published  in  London,  where  it  has  since 
passed  through  several  editions.  In  1842  he  published  "  The  Fountain, 
and  other  Poems ;"  in  1844,  "  The  White-footed  Deer,  and  other  Po- 
ems ;"  and  in  1846,  a  splendid  edition  of  his  complete  Poetical  Works, 
illustrated  with  engravings  from  pictures  by  Leutze,  was  published  in 
Philadelphia  by  Carey  and  Hart. 

"  BLESSED    ARE    THEY    THAT    MOURN." 

OH,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man,  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears ; 

And  weary  hours  of  wo  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  535 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier,     v 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  oroken  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day 

And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 
And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 

For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 

"  NO    MAN    KNOWETH    HIS    SEPULCHRE." 

WHEN  he,  who,  from  the  scourge  of  wrong, 

Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly, 
Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 

And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die : 

s 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 

Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 
And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 

His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 
Yet  God  has  marked  and  sealed  the  spot, 

To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 

THE      FUTURE     LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 


536  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there ;  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  537 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

THE  Rev.  A.  C.  Coxe  is  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  H.  Coxe,  D.D.,  of 
Brooklyn,  and  was  bora  at  Mendham,  in  New  Jersey,  on  the  10th  of 
May,  1818.  He  was  educated  at  a  gymnasium  in  Pittsfield,  Massa- 
chusetts, the  University  of  New  York,  and  the  Theological  Seminary  of 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  at  Chelsea.  He  was  admitted  to 
deacon's  orders  on  the  28th  of  June,  1841,  and  has  for  several  years 
been  rector  of  St.  Paul's  Church  in  Hartford,  Connecticut.  His  po- 
etical works  are  included  principally  in  volumes  entitled  "  Athanasion, 
and  other  Poems,"  "  Christian  Ballads,"  "  Saul,  a  Mystery,"  and  "  Hal- 
loween, a  Romaunt,  with  Lays  meditative  and  devotional." 

HYMN     TO     THE     REDEEMER. 

WHEN  o'er  Judea's  vales  and  hills, 
Or  by  her  olive-shaded  rills, 
Thy  weary  footsteps  went  of  old, 
Or  walked  the  lulling  waters  bold, 
How  beauteous  were  the  marks  divine 
That  in  thy  meekness  used  to  shine, 
That  lit  thy  lonely  pathway,  trod 
In  wondrous  love,  0  Lamb  of  God ! 

Oh  !  who  like  thee,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
Thou  Holy  child,  Thou  Light  of  Light, 
Oh !  who  like  thee,  did  ever  go 
So  patient,  through  a  world  of  wo  ! 
Oh  !  who  like  thee,  so  humbly  bore 
The  scorn,  the  scoffs  of  men  before, 
So  meek,  so  lovely — yet  so  high, 
So  glorious  in  humility ! 

The  morning  saw  thee,  like  the  day, 
Forth  on  thy  light-bestowing  way ; 
And  evening  in  her  holy  hues, 
Shed  down  her  sweet  baptismal  dews, 


538  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Where  bending  angels  stooped  to  see, 
The  lisping  infant  clasp  thy  knee, 
And  smile,  as  in  a  father's  eye, 
Upon  thy  mild  Divinity  ! 

The  hours  when  princes  sought  their  rest 
Beheld  thee,  still,  no  chamber's  guest ; 
But  when  the  chilly  night  hung  round, 
And  man  from  thee  sweet  slumber  found, 
Thy  wearied  footsteps  sought,  alone, 
The  mountain  to  thy  sorrows  known, 
And  darkness  heard  thy  patient  prayer, 
Or  hid  thee,  in  the  prowler's  lair. 

And  all  thy  life's  unchanging  years, 
A  man  of  sorrows,  and  of  tears, 
The  cross,  where  all  our  sins  were  laid, 
Upon  thy  bending  shoulders  weighed  ; 
And  death,  that  sets  the  prisoner  free, 
Was  pang,  and  scoff,  and  scorn  to  thee ; 
Yet  love  through  all  thy  torture  glowed, 
And  mercy  with  thy  life-blood  flowed. 

0  wondrous  Lord !  my  soul  would  be 
Still  more  and  more  conformed  to  thee, 
Would  lose  the  pride,  the  taint  of  sin, 
That  burns  these  fevered  veins  within, 
And  learn  of  Thee,  the  lowly  One, 
And  like  thee,  all  my  journey  run, 
Above  the  world,  and  all  its  mirth, 
Yet  weeping  still  with  weeping  earth. 

Oh !  in  thy  light,  be  mine  to  go, 
Illuming  all  my  way  of  wo ; 
And  give  me  ever,  on  the  road, 
To  trace  thy  footsteps,  0  my  God ! 
My  passions  lull,  my  spirit  calm, 
And  make  this  lion-heart  a  lamb ; 
And  give  me,  all  my  life,  to  be 
A  sacrifice  to  love  and  thee ! 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  539 


AMERICAN     MISSIONS. 

LORD,  when  thou  didst  come  from  Heaven, 

Edom  sought  thee,  from  afar, 
With  her  gold  and  incense  given, 

By  the  leading  of  a  star ; 
Westward  then,  from  Eden  guiding, 

Was  the  light  of  Bethlehem  shed  ; 
Like  the  pillared  blaze  abiding 

O'er  the  wandering  Hebrew's  head. 

Westward  still,  the  world  alluring, 

Hath  the  risen  Day-Star  beamed. 
And,  the  sinking  soul  assuring, 

O'er  the  world's  wide  ocean  streamed. 
Westward  still,  the  midnight  breaking, 

Westward  still,  its  light  be  poured ! 
Heathen  thy  possession  making, 

Utmost  lands  thy  dwelling,  Lord ! 

Westward,  where  from  giant  fountains, 

Oregon  comes  down  in  flood, 
Westward  to  Missouri's  mountains, 

Or  to  wild  Iowa's  wood  : 
Where  the  broad  Arkansas  goeth, 

Winding  o'er  savannahs  wide  ; 
Where,  beyond  old  Huron,  floweth 

Many  a  strong  eternal  tide. 

Westward,  where  the  wavy  prairie 

Dark  as  slumbering  ocean  lies, 
Let  thy  starlight,  Son  of  Mary, 

O'er  the  shadowed  billows  rise ! 
There,  be  heard  ye  herald  voices 

Till  the  Lord  his  glory  shows, 
And  the  lonely  place  rejoices, 

With  the  bloom  of  Sharon's  rose. 


540  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 


Where  the  wilderness  is  lying, 

And  the  trees  of  ages  nod, 
Westward,  in  the  desert  crying, 

Make  a  highway  for  our  God : 
Westward — till  the  Church  be  kneeling 

In  the  forest  aisles  so  dim, 
And  the  wildwood's  arches  pealing, 

With  the  people's  holy  hymn ! 

Westward,  still,  oh  Lord,  in  glory 

Be  thy  bannered  cross  unfurled, 
Till  from  vale  to  mountain  hoary, 

Rolls  the  anthem  round  the  world ; 
Reign,  oh  reign  o'er  every  nation, 

Reign,  Redeemer,  Father,  King, 
And  with  songs  of  thy  salvation, 

Let  the  wide  creation  ring ! 


RIGHT     GLAD     WAS     I. 

RIGHT  glad  was  I  when  unto  me, 

They  said  with  one  accord, 
Oh  let  us  up  to  Zion-hill, 

The  city  of  our  Lord  ! 
Our  feet  shall  stand  within  thy  gates, 

Jerusalem,  our  home, 
And  to  thy  temples  beauty-built, 

Our  wearied  steps  shall  come. 

Oh  thither  all  the  tribes  go  up, 

The  people  of  our  God  ! 
And  there  the  golden  censers  smoke, 

And  music  sounds  abroad  ! 
There  incense-wreaths  forever  rise, 

And  there  the  Lord  is  known, 
And  there  is  set  his  judgment-seat, 

His  glory,  and  his  throne  ! 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  541 

Oh  pray  ye  for  Jerusalem, 

Who  blesseth  her  is  blest ; 
Peace  be  within  thy  palaces, 

And  in  thy  temples  rest ! 
And  on  her  golden  shrines  be  light, 

And  sunshine  ever  fair, 
For  there  my  father's  children  dwell ; 

Our  fathers'  God  is  there. 


BERKELEY. 

OFT  when  the  eve-star,  sinking  into  day, 
Seems  empire's  planet  on  its  westward  way, 
Comes,  in  soft  light  from  antique  window's  groin, 
The  pure  ideal,  mitred  saint  of  Cloyne ! 
Taught,  from  sweet  childhood,  to  revere  in  thee 
Earth's  every  virtue,  writ  in  poesie, 
Nigh  did  I  leap,  on  Clio's  calmer  line, 
To  see  thy  story  with  our  own  entwine. 
On  Yale's  full  walls,  no  pictured  shape  to  me 
Like  Berkeley's  seemed,  in  priestly  dignity, 
Such  as  he  stood,  fatiguing,  year  by  year, 
In  our  behoof,  dull  prince  and  cavalier ; 
And  dauntless  still,  as  erst  the  Genoese ; 
Such  as  he  wandered  o'er  the  Indy  seas 
To  vexed  Bermoothes,  witless  that  he  went 
Mid  isles  that  beckoned  to  a  continent. 
Such  there  he  seemed,  the  pure,  the  undefiled ! 
And  meet  the  record !     Though,  perchance,  I  smiled 
That  those,  in  him,  themselves  will  glorify, 
Who  reap  his  fields,  but  let  his  doctrine  die, 
Yet,  let  him  stand :  the  world  will  note  it  well, 
And  Time  shall  thank  them  for  the  chronicle 
By  such  confessed,  Columbus  of  new  homes 
For  song,  and  Science  with  her  thousand  tomes. 
Yes — pure  apostle  of  our  western  lore, 
Spoke  the  full  heart,  that  now  may  breathe  it  more, 
46 


542  AUTHUii   CLEVELAND  COXE. 


Still  in  those  halls,  where  none  without  a  sneer 
Name  the  dear  title  of  thy  ghostly  fear, 
Stand  up,  bold  bishop — in  thy  priestly  vest ; 
Proof  that  the  Church  bore  letters  to  the  West ! 


OLD     CHURCHES. 

HAST  been  where  the  full  blossomed  bay-tree  is  blowing 

With  odors  like  Eden's  around  ? 
Hast  seen  where  the  broad-leaved  palmetto  is  growing, 

And  wild  vines  are  fringing  the  ground  ? 
Hast  sat  in  the  shade  of  catalpas,  at  noon, 

And  ate  the  cool  gourds  of  their  clime ; 
Or  slept  where  magnolias  were  screening  the  moon, 

And  the  mocking-bird  sung  her  sweet  rhyme  ? 

And  didst  mark,  in  thy  journey,  at  dew-dropping  eve, 

Some  ruin  peer  high  o'er  thy  way, 
With  rooks  wheeling  round  it,  and  bushes  to  weave 

A  mantle  for  turrets  so  gray  ? 
Did  ye  ask  if  some  lord  of  the  cavalier  kind 

Lived  there,  when  the  country  was  young  ? 
And  burned  not  the  blood  of  a  Christian,  to  find 

How  there  the  old  prayer-bell  had  rung  ? 

And  did  ye  not  glow,  when  they  told  ye — the  Lord 

Had  .dwelt  in  that  thistle-grown  pile ; 
And  that  bones  of  old  Christians  were  under  its  sward, 

That  once  had  knelt  down  in  its  aisle  ? 
And  had  ye  no  tear-drops  your  blushes  to  steep 

When  ye  thought — o'er  your  country  so  broad, 
The  bard  seeks  in  vain  for  a  mouldering  heap, 

Save  only  these  churches  of  God  ? 

0  ye  that  shall  pass  by  those  ruins  again, 

Go  kneel  in  their  alleys  and  pray, 
And  not  till  their  arches  have  echoed  amen, 

Rise  up,  and  fare  on  in  your  way  ; 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  543 


Pray  God  that  those  aisles  may  be  crowded  once  more, 

Those  altars  surrounded  and  spread, 
While  anthems  and  prayers  are  upsent  as  of  yore, 

As  they  take  of  the  wine-cup  and  bread. 

Ay,  pray  on  thy  knees,  that  each  old  rural  fane 

They  have  left  to  the  bat  and  the  mole, 
May  sound  with  the  loud-pealing  organ  again, 

And  the  full-swelling  voice  of  the  soul. 
Peradventure,  when  next  thou  shalt  journey  thereby 

Even-bells  shall  ring  out  on  the  air, 
And  the  dim -lighted  windows  reveal  to  thine  eye 

The  snowy-robed  pastor  at  prayer. 

THE    HEART'S    SONG. 

IN  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List — thy  bosom-door ! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore ! 
Say  not  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating  ; 

'Tis  thy  heart  of  sin  : 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crieth 

Rise,  and  let  me  in  ! 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 
Jesus  waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth : 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand — entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in : 
At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 


544  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Nay,  alas  !  thou  foolish  virgin, 
Hast  thou  then  forgot, 

Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee, 
But  he  knows  thee  not ! 


THE     CHIMES     OF     ENGLAND. 

THE  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Of  England  green  and  old, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 

A  thousand  years  have  tolled ; 
How  glorious  must  their  music  be 

As  breaks  the  hallowed  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice 

A  nation  up  to  pray ! 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales, 

Sweet  tales  of  olden  time  ! 
And  ring  a  thousand  memories 

At  vesper,  and  at  prime ; 
At  bridal,  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king — 
Those  chimes — those  glorious  Christian  chimes 

How  blessedly  they  ring ! 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 
Outbreaking,  as  the  angels  did, 

For  a  Redeemer  born ; 
How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  and  baron's  hall, 
With  holly  decked  and  mistletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

The  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 

From  tower  and  gothic  pile, 
Where  hymn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 

The  dim  cathedral  aisle  ; 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  545 

Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 

On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 
And  stain  the  florid  tracery 

And  banner-dighted  walls ! 

And  then,  those  Easter  bells,  in  spring! 

Those  glorious  Easter  chimes ; 
How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  queen  of  holy  times  ! 
From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 

Responsively  they  cry, 
And  sing  the  rising  of  the  Lord, 

From  vale  to  mountain  high. 

I  love  ye — chimes  of  Motherland, 

With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 
And  bless  the  Lord  that  I  am  sprung 

Of  good  old  English  line ! 
And  like  a  son  I  sing  the  lay 

That  England's  glory  tells ; 
For  she  is  lovely  to  the  Lord, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells! 

And  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

And  happy  in  my  birth, 
Thee,  too,  I  love,  my  forest-land, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth  ; 
For  thine  thy  mother's  voice  shall  be, 

And  here — where  God  is  king, 
With  English  chimes,  from  Christian  spires, 

The  wilderness  shall  ring 
46* 


546  ISAAC    WILLIAMS. 


ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 

THE  Rev.  Isaac  Williams,  of  the  University  of  Oxford,  is  the  au- 
thor of  "  The  Cathedral,"  "  Thoughts  in  Past  Years,"  and  some  of  tlu» 
"  Oxford  Tracts."  He  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  Profes- 
sorship of  Poetry  in  the  University  upon  the  retirement  of  Mr.  Keble. 
His  poems  have  been  reprinted  in  this  country  by  Messrs.  Appleton, 
and  have  been  much  less  read  than  for  their  merit  they  deserve  to  be. 

TRANSLATION    OF    THE    ANCIENT    HYMN,    "  DIES 


DAY  of  wrath  ! — that  awful  day 
Shall  the  bannered  cross  display, 
Earth  in  ashes  melt  away ! 

The  trembling,  the  agony, 
When  His  coming  shall  be  nigh, 
Who  shall  all  things  judge  and  try  ! 


*  In  the  admirable  work  entitled  "  The  Conservative  Principle  in  our  Litera- 
ture," by  the  Rev.  William  R.  Williams,  D.  D.,  of  New  York,  this  profoundly 
learned  and  eloquent  author  alludes  to  the  statement  that  Dr.  Johnson,  stern  and 
rugged  as  was  his  nature,  could  not  repeat,  without  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
this  werse  from  the  old  monkish  hymn  of  "  Dies  Irae,  Dies  Ilia," 

"Quaerens  me  sedisti  lassus. 
Redemisti  erucem  passus, 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus  !" 

And  in  a  note  he  gives  the  following  curious  and  interesting  account  of  this  cele- 
brated composition  : — 

"  It  is  to  Mrs.  Piozzi  that  we  owe  this  anecdote  of  Johnson.  '  When  he  would 
try  to  repeat  the  celebrated  Prosa  Ecclesiastica  pro  Mortuis,  as  it  is  called,  beginning 
Dies  Ira,  dies  ilia,  he  could  never  pass  the  stanza  ending  thus  Tantus  labor  non  sit 
cassus,  without  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears :  which  sensibility  I  used  to  quote 
against  him  when  he  would  inveigh  against  devotional  poetry,  and  protest  that  all 
religious  verses  were  cold  and  feeble,  and  unworthy  the  subject.'—  Crokers  Bosieeli, 
London,  1839.  vol.  ix.,  p.  73. 

"  >  smaL  Tolume,  not  without  interest,  might  be  compiled  from  the  literary  his- 
tory of  the  Dies  Irae,  and  the  versions  it  has  received  into  various  European  lan- 
guages, and  from  examples  of  the  powerful  influence  it  has  exercised  upon  the 
feelings  and  course  of  individuals.  It  can  scarce  be  regarded  as  a  waste  of  time  to 
observe  and  analyze  the  power  this  hymn,  from  the  awfulness  of  its  theme,  and 
its  own  quaint,  antique,  and  massive  grandeur  of  structure,  has  acquired  over  the 
hearts  of  men.  Unlike  the  Stabat  Mater,  another  hymn  of  the  Romish  service,  with 
which  by  mere  critics  it  is  ordinarily  classed,  it  is  free  from  idolatry.  A  devout 
Protestant  cannot  unite  in  the  Stab;,;  Mater.  It  degrades  the  Redeemer  by  idol- 


ISAAC  WILLIAMS.  547 


When  the  trumpet's  thrilling  tone, 
Through  the  tombs  of  ages  gone, 
Summons  all  before  the  throne. 

Death  and  Time  shall  stand  aghast, 
And  Creation,  at  the  blast, 
Rise  to  answer  for  the  past. 

Then  the  volume  shall  be  spread, 

And  the  writing  shall  be  read 

Which  shall  judge  the  quick  and  dead  ! 


izing  his  earthly  parent.  But  in  the  Dies  Irae,  salvation  is  represented  as  being  of 
Christ  alone,  and  as  being  of  mere  grace :  '  Qui  aalvaados  salvos  gratia.1  Combining 
somewhat  of  the  rhythm  of  classical  Latin,  with  the  rhymes  of  the  Mediaeval  Latin, 
treating  of  a  theme  full  of  awful  sublimity,  and  grouping  together  the  most  start- 
ling imagery  of  scripture,  as  to  the  last  judgment,  and  throwing  this  into  yet 
stronger  relief  by  the  barbaric  simplicity  of  the  style  in  which  it  is  set,  and  adding 
to  all  these  its  full  and  trumpet-like  cadences,  and  uniting  with  the  impassioned 
feelings  of  the  South,  whence  it  emanated,  the  gravity  of  the  North,  whose  severer 
style  it  adopted,  it  is  well  fitted  to  arouse  the  hearer,  It  forms  a  part  of  the  Ro- 
mish service  for  the  dead.  Albert  Knapp,  one  of  the  living  sacred  poets  of  Prot- 
estant Germany,  and  the  compiler  of  a  large  body  of  hymns,  the  Liederschatz,  has 
inserted  a  German  version  of  it  in  his  voluminous  collection.  (Evang.  Liederschatz. 
Stuttgart,  1837,  vol.  ii.,  p.  786,  hymn  3475.)  He  compares  the  original  to  a  blast 
from  the  trump  of  the  resurrection,  and  while  himself  attempting  a  version  of  it, 
declares  its  original  power  inimitable  in  any  translation.  (Ibid.  p.  870.)  This  is 
the  judgment  of  a  man  not  to  be  contemned  as  a  critic  or  a  translator,  for  Knapp 
himself  is  called  by  a  recent  German  critic,  who  seems  far  removed  from  any  sym- 
pathy with  the  religious  school  to  w  hich  Knapp  belongs,  '  unquestionably  the  most 
distinguished  religious  poet  of  the  day.'  (Tkimm's  Literature  of  Germany,  Lond., 
1844  ;  p.  26(1.)  He  refers  to  other  versions  of  it  made  by  the  distinguished  scholar, 
Aug.  Wm.  Schlegel,  by  Claus  Harms,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  living  evan- 
gelical preachers  of  Germany,  as  well  as  by  J.  G.  Fichte.  by  A.  L.  Pollen,  J.  G. 
Von  Meyer,  and  the  Chevalier  Bunsen.  The  translation  of  Bunsen,  with  some 
slight  variations,  is  appended  by  Tholuck  to  his  sermon  on  the  Feast-day  of  the 
Dead.  (Tholuck.  Predigten.  Hamburg,  1838,  vol.  i.,  pp.  28-149.)  Professors  Edwards 
and  Park,  in  their  '  Selections  from  German  Literature,'  (Andover,  1839,)  quote 
the  remark  of  Tholuck,  as  to  the  deep  sensation  produced  by  the  singing  of  this 
hymn  in  the  University  church :  '  The  impression,  especially  that  which  was  made 
by  the  last  words,  as  sung  by  the  University  choir  alone,  will  be  forgotten  by  no 
one.'  They  introduce  also  the  words  of  an  American  clergyman,  present  on  the 
occasion,  who  says,  '  It  was  impossible  to  refrain  from  tears,  when  at  the  seventh 
stanza,  all  the  trumpets  ceased,  and  the  choir,  accompanied  by  a  softened  tone  of 
the  organ,  sung  those  touching  lines,  Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturusj  &c.  Like 
Knapp.  they  unite  in  the  judgment,  that  no  translation  has  equalled,  or  can  equal 
the  original  Latin.  (German  Selections,  p.  185.)  Dr.  H.  A.  Daniel,  another  German 
scholar,  in  his  '  Bluethenstrauss  alt-latein,  Kirchenpoesie,  Halle,  1840,'  has  insert- 
ed, besides  the  original  Latin,  and  the  German  version  of  Bunsen,  (pp.  78  and  116,) 
another  version  of  his  own,  (p.  110.)  Goethe  has  introduced  snatches  of  the  orig- 
iu-«l  Latin  into  the  first  part  of  his  Faust. 

The  a  irni ration  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  felt  for  it  is  well  known.    He  has  ii* 


548  ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 


Then  the  Judge  shall  sit ! — oh  !  then, 
All  that's  hid  shall  be  made  plain, 
Unrequited  naught  remain. 

What  shall  wretched  I  then  plead  ? 

Who  for  me  shall  intercede, 

When  the  righteous  scarce  is  freed  ? 

King  of  dreadful  Majesty, 
Saving  souls  in  mercy  free, 
Fount  of  Pity,  save  Thou  me  ! 

troduced  an  English  version  of  a  few  of  its  opening  stanzas  into  the  '  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,'  whence  Bishop  Heber  adopted  it  into  his  '  Hymns  for  the  Church 
Service.'  They  are  too  few  to  give  any  just  idea  of  the  original,  and  the  measure 
of  the  old  hymn  is  not  as  well  retained  as  in  the  best  German  versions.  Knapp, 
Daniel,  and  Bunsen,  all  preserve  the  double  rhymes  of  the  Latin  original ;  Scott 
and  the  earlier  English  translators  have  given  but  a  single  rhymed  ending  to  their 
verses.  In  this  respect  the  English  version  of  the  London  Christian  Observer,  (vol. 
xxvi.,  p.  26,)  copied  by  Edwards  and  Park,  (German  Selections,  p.  15,)  also  comes 
short  of  its  model,  as  does  that  of  the  Rev.  Isaac  Williams,  one  of  the  writers  of 
the  Oxford  Tracts,  and  who  contested  unsuccessfully  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Garbett, 
the  election  to  the  Professorship  of  Poetry  in  Oxford,  on  the  retirement  of  Keble. 
Williams'  version  may  be  found  in  his  '  Thoughts  in  Past  Years,'  (Am.  ed.,  p.  308 ) 
A  writer  in  the  New  York  Evangelist  (October,  1841)  has  judiciously  retained  the 
double  rhyme,  but  the  reader  misses  the  antique  simplicity  and  rugged  strength  of 
the  original.  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  letter  to  a  brother  poet,  Crabbe,  remarks : 
'  To  my  Gothic  ear,  the  Stabat  Mater,  the  Dies  Iras,  and  some  of  the  other  hymns  of 
the  Catholic  church,  are  more  solemn  and  affecting  than  the  fine  classical  poetry 
of  Buchanan  ;  the  one  has  the  gloomy  dignity  of  a  Gothic  church,  and  reminds  us 
constantly  of  the  worship  to  which  it  is  dedicated  ;  the  other  is  more  like  a  pagan 
temple  recalling  to  our  memory  the  classical  and  fabulous  deities.'  (Lockharl's 
Life  of  Scott,  Philad.,  1838,  vol.  i.  p.  430.)  In  his  last  days  of  life  and  reason,  he 
was  overheard  quoting  it  with  fragments  of  the  Bible,  and  the  old  Scotch  Psalms. 
'  We  very  often,'  says  his  kinsman  and  biographer,  •  heard  distinctly  the  cadence 
of  the  Dies  /rte.'  (Ib.,  vol.  ii.,  p.  734.)  Its  lines  haunted  in  like  manner  the  dying 
hours  of  an  earlier  and  inferior  poet,  the  Earl  of  Roscommon.  He  was  the  au- 
thor of  an  English  version  of  the  hymn,  and,  as  we  learn  from  Johnson's  '  Lives 
of  the  Poets,'  he  uttered,  in  the  moment  when  he  expired,  with  great  energy  and 
devotion,  two  lines  of  his  own  translation  of  the  '  Dies  Irae  :' 

'My  God,  my  Father,  and  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end.' 

Milman,  another  distinguished  name  in  English  poetry,  has,  in  his  '  History  of 
Christianity,'  rated  this  hymn  as  superior  to  any  of  the  poetry  of  the  Christian 
church  in  the  early  ages.  '  As  to  the  hymns,  (setting  aside  the  "  Te  Deum,")  para- 
doxical as  it  may  sound,  I  cannot  but  think  the  latter  and  more  barbarous  the  best. 
There  is  nothing,  in  my  judgment,  to  be  compared  with  the  monkish  "  Dies  Irae 
dies  ilia,"  or  even  the  "  Stabat  Mater."  (Milman,  Galignani's  ed.  ii.,  p.  336,  note  ; 
Roscommon's  translation,  already  the  subject  of  reference,  is  said  by  Warton  to 
be  largely  indebted  to  the  earlier  version  of  Crashaw,  a  sacred  poet  of  true  genius, 
whose  rendering  of  the  '  Dies  Irae'  was,  in  the  judgment  of  Pope,  the  best  of  his 


ISAAC  WILLIAMS.  549 


Bear  me,  Lord,  in  heart  I  pray, 
Object  of  Thy  saving  way, 
Lest  Thou  lose  me  on  that  day. 

Weary,  seeking  me,  wast  Thou, 
And  for  me  in  death  didst  bow- 
Be  Thy  toils  availing  now ! 

Judge  of  Justice,  Thee,  I  pray, 
Grant  me  pardon  while  I  may, 
Ere  that  awful  reckoning  day. 


compositions.  (Willmott's  Lives  of  Sacred  Poets,  Lond.  1839,  vol.  i.,  p.  317.)  This 
work  of  Crashaw  may  be  found  in  '  Anderson's  British  Poets,'  (vol.  iv.,  p.  745.) 
Crashaw  was  one  of  the  clergymen  of  the  English  church,  who  during,  or  soon 
after  the  days  of  Laud,  and  probably  from  the  influence  of  that  school,  whose 
leader  and  martyr  Laud  was,  went  over,  as  by  a  natural  progression,  into  the  Ro- 
mish communion.  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  has  also  imitated  the  '  Dies  Irae.' 
(Anderson,  vol.  iv.,  p.  682.)  Evelyn,  the  author  of  the  '  Sylva,'  and  the  friend  of 
Jeremy  Taylor,  seems  also  to  have  tested  his  strength  upon  the  same  task.  In 
their  correspondence,  Taylor  asks  a  copy  of  his  friend's  version.  (Memoirs  of 
Evelyn,  vol.  iv.,  p.  26.) 

"  Upon  the  «  Dies  Irae,f  Mozart  has  founded  his  celebrated  '  Requiem,'  the  latest, 
and  not  the  least  celebrated  of  his  works.  The  excitement  of  his  feelings  whilst 
employed  on  this  musical  composition,  is  supposed  to  have  hastened  his  end,  which 
occurred,  indeed,  before  he  could  fully  complete  the  task. 

'  What  has  wrought  so  strongly  on  the  graver  temperament  of  the  North,  was 
not,  although  Gothic  in  its  structure,  likely  to  remain  without  any  effect  on  the 
quicker  feelings  of  the  South.  Ancina,  at  that  time  a  Professor  of  Medicine  in  the 
University  of  Turin,  was  one  day  hearing  mass,  when  the  '  Dies  Irae,'  as  chanted 
in  the  service  for  the  dead,  so  strongly  affected  him,  that  he  determined  to  abandon 
the  world.  He  afterwards  became  Bishop  of  Saluzzo.  (Biogr.  Diet,  of  Soc.  Biff. 
Usef.  Kn.,  '  Ancina.') 

•'  The  authorship  of  the  hymn  is  generally  ascribed  to  one  of  the  Franciscan  or- 
der, or  the  Minorites  as  they  are  also  called.  Thomas  de  Celano,  the  friend  and 
biographer  of  Francis  of  Assisi,  the  founder  of  this  order,  and  who  lived  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  is  generally  supposed  to  have  written  it  about  the  year  1250. 
(Gieselerjs  Ch.  Hist.,  Am.  ed.  II.,  288  ;  Knapp  Liederschats,  II.,  870  ;  Tholuck  and  Daniel 
ut  supra.)  Celano,  it  may  be  observed  by  the  way,  is  one  of  those  on  whose  au- 
thority is  made  to  rest  the  legend  that  Francis  received  the  stigmata  or  miraculous 
impressions  of  Christ's  wounds.  (Alban  Butler,  Lives  of  Saints.)  It  has  also  been 
attributed  to  others  of  the  same  order.  Matthew  of  Aquasparta,  a  general  of  the 
Minorites,  who  died  with  the  rank  of  Cardinal,  in  1302,  and  Frangipani,  a  Minorite, 
and  a  Cardinal,  who  died  in  1294.  (Knapp.)  Churton,  the  author  of  the  '  Early 
English  Church,'  would  give  it,  however,  a  much  earlier  origin,  or  he  has  fallen 
into  a  gross  anachronism  ;  for  he  places  it  in  the  lips  of  the  dying  Thurstan,  the 
Archbishop  of  York,  who  ended  his  course  in  the  year  1140,  a  full  century  before 
the  time  generally  fixed  fa  its  composition  by  T.  de  Celano.  (Churton,  Am.  ed., 
p.  272.) 

"  Issuing,  as  it  certainly  did,  from  an  age  of  great  superstition  and  corruption,  it 
is  remarkable  that  it  should  be  so  little  incrusted  with  the  prevalent  errors  of  the 
time.  The  lines,  '  Quempatronum  rogaturus  Cum  vix  Justus  sit  securus?'  seem  almost 


550  ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 


O'er  my  crimes  I  guilty  groan, 
Blush  to  think  what  I  have  done, 
Spare  Thy  suppliant,  Holy  One. 

Thou  didst  set  th'  adultress  free, — 
Heard'st  the  thief  upon  the  tree, — 
Hope  vouchsafing  e'en  to  me. 

Naught  of  thee  my  prayers  can  claim, 
Save  in  Thy  free  mercy's  name, 
Save  me  from  the  deathless  flame ! 


a  renunciation  of  the  Romish  doctrine  of  the  advocacy  of  saints.  Like  the  '  Imi- 
tation of  Christ,'  by  Thomas  a  Kempis,  it  remains  as  a  monument  of  the  truth, 
that  in  ages  of  general  declension,  God  had  his  own  hidden  ones,  and  that  beneath 
the  drifting  and  accumulating  mass  of  heresies,  and  human  inventions,  and  tra- 
ditions, there  was  an  under-current  of  simple  faith  in  Christ,  that  kept  alive  and 
verdant  some  less  noticed  portions  of  the  blighted  vineyard  of  the  church.  If 
really  the  work  of  the  historian  of  the  stigmata  of  the  fanatical  Francis  of  Assisi, 
it  affords  another  of  the  many  examples  that  show  how  much  excellence  and  how 
much  error  may  exist  together. 

"  A  composition  that  has,  with  no  effort  at  elaboration  or  poetic  art,  so  long  at- 
tracted the  admiration  of  poets  like  Goethe  and  Scott,  distinguished  for  their  skill 
in  the  mere  art ;  and  yet  met  also  the  wants  and  won  the  sympathies  of  men,  who, 
disregarding  poetry,  looked  mainly  to  piety  of  sentiment— a  poem  that  has  thus 
united  the  suffrages  of  religion  and  taste,  deserves  some  study,  as  a  model,  in  that 
walk  of  such  difficulty  and  dignity,  the  walk  of  sacred  poetry. 

"  The  Latin  original  has,  within  a  fewyears,  become  accessible  to  American  readers 
in  Edwards  and  Park's  German  selections,  p.  185  ;  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Americana, 
(art.  Dies  Irce ;)  and  in  Isaac  Williams'  '  Thoughts  in  Past  Years,'  Am.  ed.,  p.  309. 
The  readings  of  the  first  stanza  at  Rome  and  Paris  differ.  The  former  has  as  the 
second  line,  '  Cruets  expandens  vexilla,'  in  allusion  to  the  old  Romish  tradition  that 
the  '  Sign  of  the  Son  of  Man,'  to  be  seen  in  the  heavens  on  his  coming  to  judgment 
is  the  cross.  The  latter,  omitting  this  line,  has  for  its  third  line,  '  Teste  David  cum 
Sibylla,'  a  reference  to  the  Sybilline  oracles,  whose  genuineness  as  Christian  pro- 
phecies seems  never  in  the  Mediaeval  times  to  have  been  questioned,  and  whose 
authority  Bishop  Horsley  has  sought  to  revive.  (Journee  du  Chretien,  Paris,  1810, 
pp.  82,  84.)  This  seems  the  more  ancient,  and  to  Protestants,  is  perhaps  the  less 
objectionable  reading.  The  closing  sentence,  '  Pie  Jesu  Domine,  Dona  eis  requiem, 
Amen,'  is  a  prayer  for  the  dead  ;  but  not  having  the  rhymes  of  the  rest,  we  should 
suppose  the  words  rather  a  part  of  the  burial  service  into  which  the  hymn  is  inlaid, 
than  a  portion  originally  of  the  hymn  itself. 

••  Since  the  first  edition  of  this  address  was  issued,  the  writer  has  received  a  copy 
of  a  work  on  the  '  Stabat  Mater,'  by  a  German  Protestant  clergyman,  Dr.  Frederick 
G.  Lisco,  preacher  at  the  church  of  St.  Gertrude,  in  Berlin,  already  advantageous- 
ly known  to  British  and  American  Christians,  from  his  work  on  the  '  Parables  of 
our  Lord,'  translated  and  issued  in  the  Edinburgh  Biblical  Cabinet.  Besides  a  his- 
tory of  the  Hymn,  the  pamphlet  contains  fifty-three  several  versions,  mostly  Ger- 
man, of  the  '  Stabat  Mater.'  From  the  appendix  to  this  work  the  present  writer 
discovered,  of  which  he  was  before  ignorant,  that  Lisco  had  in  an  earlier  year 
issued  a  similar  collection  of  the  translations  into  German  of  the  '  Dies  Irae.'  This 
the  present  writer  has  been  unable  to  obtain.  But  in  the  appendix  to  the  '  Stabat 


ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 


551 


With  Thy  sheep  ray  place  assign, 
Separate  from  th'  accursed  line, 
Set  me  on  Thy  right  with  Thine. 

When  the  lost,  to  silence  driven, 
To  devouring  flames  are  given, 
Call  me  with  the  blest  to  Heaven ' 

Suppliant,  fallen,  low  I  bend, 
My  bruised  heart  to  ashes  rend, 
Care  Thou,  Lord,  for  my  last  end ! 


Mater,'  Lisco  subjoins  seventeen  additional  versions  of  the  '  Judgment  Hymn.' 
One  of  these  is  a  translation  of  it  into  modern  Greek,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hiidner,  a 
Missionary  of  the  (English)  Church  Missionary  Society  at  Syra,  and  was  sent  by 
its  author  to  the  Litt.  ^Imeiger  of  the  distinguished  Prof.  Tholuek.  As  double 
rhymes  in  Greek  may  be  a  curiosity  to  some  readers,  we  subjoin  the  verse  already 
quoted,  in  the  modern  Greek  garb  given  it  by  Mr.  Hiidner  :— 


At'  c/i£.  K 


Lisco  refers  to  one  German,  Lecke,  who  wrote  and  published  twelve  several  ver- 
sions of  the  '  Dies  Irae.' 

"  The  Franciscan  order,  in  its  earlier  history,  would  seem  to  have  cultivated 
sacred  poetry.  Francis,  its  founder,  was  the  writer  of  some  Italian  verses,  •  two  of 
the  earliest  poetical  flights  in  the  language,'  (Eustace,  Classical  Tour,  II.,  148  ;)  to 
Thomas  de  Celano,  the  authorship  of  the  '  Dies  Irae'  is  generally  attributed  ;  and  to 
another  Franciscan,  Jacopone,  is  ascribed  by  the  chief  authorities  the  composition 
of  the  '  Stabat  Mater.' 

"  The  closest  of  the  English  versions  of  the  '  Dies  Irae,'  that  have  fallen  under 
the  eye  of  the  present  writer,  is  that  of  the  Rev  Richard  C.  Trench,  a  clergyman 
of  the  Established  Church  in  England  or  Ireland.  His  rendering  does  not  reach, 
however,  the  flowing  freedom  or  full  cadences  of  the  original  It  is  subjoined. 

DIES    IR.E. 

O  that  day,  that  day  of  ire,  When  the  Judge  his  place  has  ta'en, 

Told  of  Prophet,  when  in  fire,  All  things  hid  shall  be  made  plain, 

Shall  a  world  dissolved  expire  !  Nothing  unavenged  remain. 


O  what  terror  shall  be  then, 
When  the  Judge  shall  come  again, 
Strictly  searching  deeds  of  men  : 

When  a  trump  of  awful  tone, 
Thro'  the  caves  sepulchral  blown, 
Summons  all  before  the  throne. 

What  amazement  shall  o'ertake 
Nature,  when  the  dead  shall  wake, 
Answer  to  the  Judge  to  make ! 

Open  then  the  book  shall  lie 
All  o'erwrit  for  every  eye, 
With  a  world's  iniquity. 


What  then,  wretched  !  shall  I  speak. 

Or  what  intercession  seek, 

When  the  just  man's  cause  is  weak  ? 

Jesus,  Lord,  remember,  pray, 
I  the  cause  was  of  thy  way  ; 
Do  not  lose  me  on  that  day. 

King  of  awful  majesty, 

Who  the  saved  dost  freely  free  ; 

Fount  of  mercy,  pity  me  ! 

Tired  thou  satest,  seeking  me— 
Crucified,  to  set  me  free  ; 
Let  such  pain  not  fruitless  be. 


552  ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 


Full  of  tears  the  day  shall  prove, 
When,  from  ashes  rising,  move 

To  the  judgment  guilty  men, — 
Spare,  Thou  God  of  mercy,  then ! 

Lord,  all  pitying,  Jesu  blest ! 
Grant  them  Thine  eternal  rest. 

Amen. 


Terrible  Avenger,  make  Though  my  prayer  unworthy  be, 

Of  thy  mercy  me  partake,  Yet,  O  set  me  graciously 

E'er  that  day  of  vengeance  wake.  From  the  fire  eternal  free. 

As  a  criminal  I  groan,  Mid  thy  sheep  my  place  command, 

Blushing  deep  my  faults  I  own  ;  From  the  goats  far  off  to  stand  ; 

Grace  be  to  a  suppliant  shown.  Set  me,  Lord,  at  thy  right  hand. 

Thou  who  Mary  didst  forgive,  And  when  them  who  scorned  thee  here 

And  who  bad'st  the  robber  live,  Thou  hast  judged  to  doom  severe, 

Hope  to  rne  dost  also  give.  Bid  me  with  thy  saved  draw  near. 

Lying  low  before  thy  throne, 
Crushed  my  heart  in  dust,  I  groan  , 
Grace  be  to  a  suppliant  shown. 


THE    END. 


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